To The End of Night
by Pen52
Summary: As the Fellowship enters Moria, two unlikely companions meet: a hunter chasing its latest quarry, an escaped prisoner whose situation just went from bad to worse. For two years, peril and death have loomed over the Golden Wood... and time has just run out
1. Revolving doors

_-_

_Revolving doors_

* * *

---

__

Only the light of the stars guided Gimli's steps when the Fellowship approached the imposing walls of Moria. He was there, at long last! His breath hitched and, suddenly anxious, he raced to the forefront of the group, brushing against Frodo in his hurry. Gimli did not need to glance down to the hafling's pale face to know traces of fear marred his friend's features. None of them wished to enter this realm of whispered legend.

_None but I, Gimli son of Glóin. _

He was very much aware of the dark shroud of evil that had enveloped Moria ever since the awakening of Durin's Bane, and the subsequent flight of his people from the ancient halls they called home. Yet there was no place for apprehension in his mind and his spirit in this moment. His proximity to the fabled halls of _Khazad-dum_ had kindled a great fire in his heart, one he did not intend to quench. To think that he, Gimli, would soon stand in the very place where Durin the Deathless had stood in the Age of the Stars! To think that he would have a chance to peer into the _Kheled-zâram_! Never in his life did he imagine he would receive such a boon.

Gimli pressed on - his feet followed the again narrow path, his back pressed lightly against the cliff wall. Slow minutes passed, the only sound to be heard that of his own feet, and those of his companions.

A chill prickled at his spine at the unnatural silence.

The path twisted and turned, and, suddenly, he saw it. The Hollin gate! The rapid beat of his heart thundered in his ears. The Doors of Durin were there, he knew, their secret waiting to be revealed.

_It will not be long, now._

_---_

_---_

_Tap_!

Solid rock. Sighing, Gimli walked on, further along the wall, and tapped the stone with his axe again. Still, there was nothing. _Indeed_, he mused, _dwarf-doors are meant to be invisible and so kept hidden from the eyes of the enemy_. He did not deny the wisdom of it. But even the thought of the prudence of his forefathers did nothing to temper his growing impatience.

_Tap_!

The elf was there as well, he saw, his ear pressed firmly against the stone wall. Did he think to find the entrance so? Gimli doubted it, but quickened his pace regardless – the notion of an elf besting a dwarf in matters of stone fueling his efforts.

"Look!" he heard Gandalf say. "Can you see anything now?"

He turned just in time to see the wizard glance up at the sky - a startled gasp tore from his throat as the moon revealed itself in all its majesty at Gandalf's unspoken command. The level of light intensified, but not all of it was coming from the brightness above. Silver lines formed along what had, seconds ago, been a wall of nondescript rock. Right before his eyes, a gateway appeared – a crown just under the arch, surrounded by the shapes of seven stars, and, beneath it, an outline of an anvil and a hammer.

"There are the emblems of Durin!" he cried.

"And there is the Tree of the High Elves!" said Legolas in answer.

A dwarf and an elf crafted these gates together, long ago, Gimli recalled. He glanced at Legolas, who now stood next to the haflings, and shook his head once. Narvi and Celebrimbor, the two companions of old were called, and Gimli now wondered if the craftsman of Khazad-dum had found his elven friend as difficult to deal with as he found Legolas to be. Somehow, he doubted it – if it had been so, in all likelihood, the Doors of Durin would be missing their inscription.

Gimli stepped forward. Soon, he would pass under that high arch and enter an ancient realm, one still remembered in his people's songs. A satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

_It will not be long, now._

_---_

_---_

_"Ando Eldarinwa a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa!"_

_Another incantation_. Gimli turned back, eyes on the stone door, hands pausing mid-motion. Perhaps, this was the correct one. A moment passed, and then another, but the door remained closed, gleaming in the darkness. A frustrated sound escaped him, and he reluctantly resumed sharpening the blade of his axe. The rough sharpening stone pushed inwardly from the cutting edge, guided by the dwarf's steady hand. When he smoothed out one of the few burrs that marred the surface of the weapon, Gimli paused again. An axe with a blunt edge becomes no more than an inefficient hammer, he knew, yet his mind would not concentrate on the task at hand.

"We should have been on our way by now!" The words escaped him against his will. Aragorn looked up from sharpening his own knife.

"Do not be so quick to wish it, Gimli," he said. "Who knows what awaits us when we pass through these gates?"

"Better to face it sooner than later, then, if it cannot be helped." Gimli's hands lead the stone to the cutting edge again.

"There is truth in what you say," Aragorn nodded and fixed his keen eyes on him. "But it is not the sole reason for your impatience."

_Balin_. Was he even among the living? Thirty years had passed already since his cousin's departure from Erebor, and news of him had become scarce. Gimli still hoped to put his mind at ease regarding his cousin's safety.

"No," he admitted at length. "It is not." He glanced at the door again – a light touch on his shoulder, and he turned to see Aragorn stand beside him.

"You will find your answers there, friend." Aragorn gestured at the looming walls. "I only pray that they do not grieve you much."

"_Mellon_," the wizard's voice rang.

The doors were opening.

* * *

---

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, and Kalista's hand paused, mid-motion, before finally reaching for the half-opened door. She traced the surface of it, with just the tips of her fingers, carefully – it felt smooth against her callused skin. A sudden gust of wind pushed against the door, but she held it in place, lightly, and inhaled a mouthful of the crisp night air into her lungs. A lingering scent carried on the breeze – it drifted into the corridor, and she froze again. They were outside. What if they find her?

_There is still time, if I leave now._

The thought did not have the desired effect, but caused a familiar excitement to course through her veins instead. So what if they find her? A part of her would welcome the simplicity of a fight – provided it was one she could win. The scent intensified as they drew nearer. How many of them were there?

_I am tired of hiding._

One step forward, one push against the door, and she would be in plain sight – one way or the other, it would be over. Kalista withdrew her hand and took a step back instead. And another one after that, step after step down the derelict corridor, until she came to a vacant room. A large hole in the wall stood in place of a window. The surrounding buildings were not particularly high – and all of them on the level with this one. If she could climb up the fire escape… _There_!

Kalista scrambled up, quietly. Once on the roof, she ran across the length of it and jumped the short distance to the connecting building. After reaching the end the last roof-top – the seventh in a row and nearer to the ground than any of the ones before – she jumped down and landed in a sparsely-lit alleyway. Nearby, another door creaked open – she turned, muscles relaxed and ready. An orange colored cat ran pass her, hissing as it knocked over a half-empty garbage can.

Did they follow? She couldn't smell them anymore. Kalista closed her eyes and listened, still undecided.

There was only silence.

Tomorrow, or the night after that, the vampires would come again. But, for now, she had wasted enough time being prey.

Kalista broke into a run again, and the hunt began anew. The night was quickly drawing to its end, with the Polgara still on the loose; barely an hour ago she had discovered the bloody remains of its last victim.

A small brick wall – two by two, chipped in places. Ordinary grey brick. The drying blood that covered it made it seem almost black in the dark, the patches of grey far and few in between. The body itself was hardly recognizable as human anymore. The man's severed head lay some feet away – long strands of grey-streaked hair fell over the mutilated features and hid them from sight. Bloodshed aside, a part of her admired the Polgara's weapons: retractable bone blades that sprung from its forearms at will. It was an efficient killer.

The clear lines of the demon's weapons could still be seen amidst the mass of other, gorier injuries – it had taken no more than three slashes to dismember the body. The rest was done post mortem and not by the Polgara. A reluctant search of the remains had confirmed what she knew already: the heart and the lungs were missing.

_Two hours till sunrise_. Kalista picked up speed.

At the next crossroad, she came to a sudden halt. Two boys who looked no older then eighteen walked up and down a well-lit part of the sidewalk. A girl sat on a beat-up bench not fifteen feet away; she looked even younger. _Flesh for hire_. The bruise that covered half of the girl's face was clearly visible, even in the dim light. Other than that, the streets seemed deserted. That alleyway, there – that was where she needed to go.

A sudden movement caught her eye, and Kalista turned to see a man stumble and then lean heavily on the railing across the road. He clutched at his chest, falling to his knees, then, with a shuddering groan, slid slowly on to the ground. Kalista hesitated. The alleyway began just where he slumped to the floor. She would have to go past him.

On the first step he called out to her and moaned on the second. His agony brushed her mind, muted and brief. A moment passed before her feet moved, more of their own accord than by a conscious choice. Swearing softly, she crouched next to the man.

_Souls below_! He reeked of a combination of dirt, grime and bodily fluids that had at least a few days to marinate, and absorb in to the skin and clothes, which were no more than tethered rags. Kalista guessed his age as late twenties, but his weathered face looked somewhat older.

The sleeve of his right arm rolled up well past the elbow, and a brief glance at the needle marks there proved her suspicion right – a junky. She listened to his labored breath and the rapid beat of his heart; it was only a matter of time before he went into cardiac arrest. Did she even care? Kalista looked up.

The hooker in the corner deliberately avoided meeting her eyes, and the two boys were rapidly backing away. Possibly, they had the right idea. He had done this to himself. When Kalista started to rise, a sudden pressure at her ankle froze her in place. Pain and fear – _not her own _– welled up inside her. Stepping back, she escaped the touch – the borrowed feelings subsided, fading into the background, a faint echo easily ignored.

"H…help…me," the dying man managed to choke out, before taking a series of shallow breaths. He shook visibly.

The smell of fear suddenly covered even the stench of his clothes – a part of her sat up and took notice, growling with excitement. Instinct took over. A pained sound escaped him, his fingers brushed against her ankle again – _help me _– Kalista looked down. His eyes were pleading and terrified, his face ashen. She frowned - the thrill left her, and the numbness seeped back in.

For a moment, she hated him for it.

He shook again, the muscles of his forearm flexing and relaxing in sporadic spasms. Sighing, she crouched next to him again, careful not to touch, and murmured soothing nonsense.

_I don't have time for this. _

A fresh sense of urgency accompanied the thought. Even now, there was a good chance another victim was being ripped apart by the Polgara. The bastards would have her hide if the demon's head count got any higher… or withdraw their protection. _Hell_! As if she was to blame the thing had an appetite.

A car passed by. The driver didn't stop at her gesture, but sped up and drove away. It figured – who in their right mind would stop to pick anyone up in this part of town? Kalista straightened and started walking towards the main road.

"Don't… don't leave me," the junky called after her. "Pl…please." The last word came out as a breathless whisper.

"You need help… I'll get you some." She didn't turn around to make sure he believed her. Why did she bother doing this in the first place? An inward shrug – an acquired habit, she guessed.

It didn't take long for another car to come their way; a pair of headlights rushed towards her. Quickly coming to a decision, Kalista stepped forward – the breaks shrieked, and a yellow cab came to a halt mere inches from her steel-toed boots. From behind the wheel, a shabby looking man stared at her in shock.

"I have a customer for you."

---

---

Nodding her thanks, Kalista pressed some cash into the still-reluctant cab-driver's hand. Before the door closed, she grabbed hold of his arm.

"Watch him. If his heart stops, use CPR. I don't care how you do it, or how often, but keep him alive till you get to the hospital. If I find out he died because you decided it wasn't worth the bother…" She gave a thin smile, her teeth bared. "If that happens… I'll be paying you a visit."

All color drained from his face – the only pleasant sight this night – and he gave her a jerky nod of the head. Briefly, her eyes drifted towards the body strapped into the passenger's seat. The junkie's breathing was becoming more and more erratic – the rapid beat of his heart drummed in her ears.

_He won't make it to the hospital. _

She let go. The door closed with a soft thud.

* * *

---

Boromir lowered his head to pass beneath a low arch; not the first and certainly not the last he would encounter, here. When his shoulder lightly brushed the pillar on his left, a cloud of dust enveloped him. The arch above him groaned and cracked, a number of small stones raining down on his head and back.

_Careful_.

In the depths of Moria, there could be no room for mistakes. If only they had not been forced to take this path!

How the Doors of Durin crumbled, no more than a child's toy against such force.. Boromir dismissed the memory of the cave-in, for it mattered little, now. That way was closed to them.

He stumbled – his foot caught in one of the small cracks that littered the path before him. With so little light to guide his steps, it could not be helped.

"Are you well?" Legolas inquired, turning to face him. The elf's gaze centered on his leg, bright eyes narrowing in frank appraisal.

Boromir made a dismissive gesture, briefly leaning on the rock wall. Wincing, he tightened his boot-laces and ran his hand along the back of his calf, gently squeezing the muscles there. A slight injury, as far as he could tell – he would examine the ankle later, when Gandalf commanded a halt. He straightened, with little effort, and carefully placed some of his weight back on the injured foot. The pain was sharp, but manageable. He took in a deep breath, and then another one, before he pressed on, his eyes fixed on the green cloth that adorned Legolas' back. It stood out in the dark.

Why had they come to this place?

Boromir shifted his gaze from the elf, and glanced back, towards the darkness that stretched out behind him. The Ranger stood there, his tall frame a mere shadowy figure in the dim light. What would his father think of the man – Isildur's Heir? Boromir did not dare guess. At the moment, he was undecided himself.

He hastened his steps. The sooner they reached the Dimril Dale, the better – he could hardly wait to leave this stifling maze of connecting caves and winding tunnels behind. He had been away from the walls of the White City for far too long already.

_Will it soon become too late? _

The once clear blue skies above his city grew darker by the day, and Sauron's armies continued to grow, while the forces of Gondor diminished steadily. They had hope, still – but how long would hope and stout hearts hold the might of Barad-dúr at bay? _What if Gondor should fall in my absence? _

A chill went through him. "We should not have come here," he muttered. Legolas stilled and turned to face him – he had not been quiet enough.

"Take heart, Boromir," the elf said. A reassuring smile lingered on his lips. "Stay the path. Mithrandir will find a way."

If only it were that simple. He gave a slow nod, regardless – they could not turn back, now.

The way was shut.

_---_

_---_

_Mithril_.

All folk desired it, it was said.

_The Dwarves at least must have craved it_, Boromir thought, _to dwell in these dark holes_.

If such was the price of Moria-silver, he had little need for it. Shaking his head, he continued his slow descent, step after careful step. The ancient stone nearly crumbled beneath his feet, and he paused, hesitant to glance down to the chasm that sprawled beneath him. A narrow trail bridged the void and led to safety, starting at the bottom of the staircase. If he could only reach it first! Another large shard of rock broke off and tumbled down into the darkness. Moments passed – a loud sigh of relief escaped him after his feet settled on a relatively wide path. He had crossed it. Praise the Valar!

The others moved forward, so Boromir followed. Only the Ranger trailed behind him.

Suddenly, a glimmer of light flashed in the dark – intrigued, he looked closer.

There it was again! A shimmer of silver in the stone wall. Boromir stepped off the trodden path, curious despite himself – could it be true-silver? His arm extended, fingers reaching for that faint gleam in the dark. Three steps he made, before his right foot descended towards the ground, only to meet with air on the fourth. His balance lost, he stumbled forward; his breath caught in his throat. How deep was this crack in the ground below him? A moment passed, and he felt himself falling – the narrow vein of silver twinkled in his field of vision, mockingly, even after he squeezed his eyes shut.

A strong hand wrapped around his forearm and pulled him back from the edge with a jerk. After he felt solid ground beneath his feet again, he exhaled loudly. His hand flew to his face to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat that had formed on his forehead. How could he have been so careless?

"Not all dangers lie in plain sight, Boromir," a voice cautioned. "Even a promise of light can bring death in this place."

A moment passed before he could answer. "I am well-aware of it." His throat felt dry and constricted. "Now." A slow shake of the head. "It will not happen again." The Ranger nodded and drew back, allowing him to take the lead. Boromir shuddered, once, and pressed forward.

There was only one light he could follow here, unafraid. The faint glow of the wizard's staff beckoned him in the distance.

"Gandalf will have us stop, soon. We covered enough ground for the day, I think." Aragorn's voice carried from behind him. "Only a little ways further, and we can rest for a few hours."

---

---

Water closed above Boromir's head, the weight of his armor pulling him under, towards the bottom.

_No_!

He held his breath, frantically fumbling with the leather fastenings – they would not come undone under his wooden fingers – he drew a knife from his belt and cut through them instead. One, two, three – Oh_, Valar! How many of them are there?_ – the last one gave out, and he was free. Dim light reflected off the emblem - the White Tree of Gondor - as the heavy breast plate drifted down, to rest on the river bed. Memory stirred... his father's gift. But how? He had lost it before, had he not?

_Osgiliath_…

His lungs burned. _Air_. It was all he could think of.

In a near frenzy, Boromir broke through to the surface, coughing and spiting violently, his previous confusion forgotten. After taking a series of deep, steadying breaths, he began to swim, struggling against the changing current.

He knew, now, where he was.

The deafening roar of his men's cheers echoed in his ears, as he made for the river bank, followed closely by the sound of angry orcish curses. Was he out of bow-range? Weary muscles groaned in protest with every stroke, but he would not yet stop and rest. One way or the other, he had to keep moving – before the cold robbed him of the little strength he still possessed. He cast a hurried glance to his right. Faramir! Where was his brother?

There! With swift, sure strokes, Faramir cut his way through the murky waters. They would reach the shore together.

Once out of the water, he allowed himself to turn back. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight; exhilaration battled with exhaustion and won. The day was theirs! Gondor had prevailed against the Enemy – the last stone bridge of Osgiliath stood no more! Pushing back the strands of wet hair that clung to his face in one quick motion, he laughed in triumph. They had won!

He felt a slight tugging at his shoulder – he whirled around, only to find no one there. The entire river bank stood empty. Where were his men? _What new trickery is this_? He glanced around him. Some fifty paces away, Faramir climbed up from the river; as he straightened, small rivulets of water trickled down his arms and legs. Relieved, Boromir raised a hand in greeting, and Faramir returned the gesture – with long strides, he started to close the distance between them.

Boromir tried to follow suit… yet his feet refused to move. Again, he felt the touch of that invisible hand on his back.

Confused, he called out, but no sound came. What was happening? Suddenly, fear clutched at his heart - an orc stood behind Faramir, sword in hand. Boromir's mouth opened in a silent scream.

The rusted weapon moved in a downwards swing – Faramir! – there was a searing flash of pain; his pain. The jagged edge of the blade dug into Boromir's back.

His eyes snapped open – he gasped for breath.

"Boromir," Frodo called, still gripping his shoulder. "Gandalf said to wake you. We are to continue."

It had been a dream.

Shaken, he fumbled with his pack to mask his discomfort. "I am ready." He followed the Ring-bearer. His foot still ached when he put his full weight on it, but it was a distraction he welcomed.

"Merely a dream," he whispered.

His lips moved in silent prayer, regardless.

_Valar, keep him safe_.

_

* * *

_

---

_Oh, sweet Elbereth, protect me._

Hithriel ran through a rounded, narrow tunnel – the flickering artificial light flashed white, once, and died out – she stopped, blinded. Careful to keep her right hand pressed against the wall, she stepped forward, tentative and unsure. The rough surface left a greasy residue on her fingers, the foul smell making her pull her hand back with a sharp jerk – a moment's indulgence. Both fear and reason returned, and she replaced her palm, edging further down the tunnel, gaining speed and confidence as she went. Her perception altered – the four remaining senses sharpened – the sound of her footsteps bounced off the low ceiling and returned to her, the echo twice as loud. She winced inwardly. Would _it _hear her? Her heart pounded so fiercely at the thought that, for a moment, she feared it would burst right out of her chest.

Her fingers found a protrusion in the wall – a cylinder shaped metal, cool against her skin. Hithriel moved in that direction, her hand wrapped around it. After no more then fifteen paces, the protrusion abruptly ended, and she tried to feel for the wall again – only to meet with air. _Where_? Hithriel's breath quickened. How could she hope to escape without sight or touch to aid her? Frantic, she lunged to her right. A hollow metallic sound echoed through the sewers when her foot connected with…what? She did not know. Silence followed, interrupted only by the steady sound of dripping water.

Coming back on, the lights flickered once and stabilized, emitting a low hum. Then, it roared, somewhere in the tunnels.

Dread became all she knew, and Hithriel ran, heedless of where. She had to escape it. There was a sharp turn in the road ahead – the tunnel divided into two separate passages; the fluorescent lighting gone from either one. She paused. To the left or to the right? How could she decide? She looked back over her shoulder – the breath caught in her throat. Left or right, it did not matter now – it followed, a scarce few paces behind her.

In a blind panic, she fled down the left passage. _No_! Hithriel choked out a desperate sob. A barrier stood before her, blocking her way. There was no way out. A low growl reverberated through the air, and, when she turned, she saw it standing behind her - leathery, ghostly white skin spread over a bulking frame; seven feet of solid, hard muscle. A web of scars covered its massive arms; complicated, painted-on markings ran down its torso and legs. The black, silted pupils sent a jolt of fear through her.

There was roar - of effort so intense it might have been pain - and deadly-looking twin spurs abruptly burst out from its forearms, the already torn flesh parting wetly to allow them passage. Bright green droplets glimmered across the length of them. Was it blood? She could not tell, but, when it came towards her, all thought fled from her head, save one.

_Run_.

There was another sound, and the monster whirled around. A woman stood in the passage behind them, still and unmoving – holding one large knife in either hand.

Hithriel felt a surge of hope.

"Thau nín!" she cried.

_Help me_.

---


	2. Prey

_Prey_

- - -

_The Polgara_.

The one she'd been hunting for, without a doubt; complicated markings covered most of its skin. Large, spiraling letters – _Latin _– ran down its spine, while more ancient runes marred its shoulders and arms. _Marred_, not covered – carved into the skin. A signature of sorts, and a controlling influence, if one knew how to use it. _But I don't_. Kalista lowered her forearms, the throwing knives from the sleeve sheats sliding into her palms, and hurled the light blades at the Polgara's back. Only one broke trough the thick, leather-like skin there; the other bounced off harmlessly.

The creature turned, by her guess more pissed off than hurt, and growled at her, pulling away from the terrified woman. _Good_. She reached for the sword strapped to her back.

Before it was halfway drawn, the Polgara rushed her in a surprising burst of speed. _What the_? A vicious back-hand sent her flying into a wall. Her head and right shoulder connected painfully with the hard surface, and little white lights burst into her field of vision, before the world went black. _No_! She forced her eyes open. One of the twin blades that extended from the Polgara's wrists cut her upper arm, and Kalista rolled to the side, avoiding the other. The sudden breath of air against her face told her it had not missed by much.

She flowed into the roll, going over twice before she scrambled up and stood in a fighting stance, a longer blade in her right hand and a dagger in her left, for slashing and defense. Fighting a wave of dizziness that threatened to overtake her, she swayed to one side. _Concentrate_! One bone blade sliced trough the air above her as she ducked and parried the other with her own. The dagger gleamed with a greenish tinge in the dark after it carved a wet path across the demon's abdomen. Not a serious injury, but the Polgara roared and came at her again. The longer blade flew out of her hand in the collision. Twisting to the side at the last possible moment, she embedded the dagger in its throat with a swift jerk of the wrist. Lashing out, her right boot connected with the Polgara's left knee, shattering it. She jumped away, hand reaching for her belt, pulling out another throwing dagger, and took aim. It entered the creature's other leg, just below the knee.

The creature's legs gave out, and it fell to the ground, resting on one hand, the other grabbing for the object protruding from its flesh. With little success. The design of the jagged blade made pulling it out difficult – not without causing more damage on the way out than on the way in. Kalista circled the demon until she came at its back, careful to avoid the arm that still occasionally flailed through the air. Reaching to the front, over its shoulder, her fingers closed around the dagger hilt and ripped it out, slitting the throat in the process. Something sliced into her side. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she thrust the dagger back in at the base of its neck; simultaneously, her left hand caught the Polgara's massive jaw and _pulled_.

The sewers echoed with the sound of the creature's neck and spine breaking. The body slumped to the ground, and an eerie quiet set down on the underground tunnel – only to be interrupted by desperate sobbing.

_Ignore it_. Focusing until the crying became no more than background noise, she listened, for the faintest sound; she breathed in – nothing. Nothing else moved in the tunnels, except her and the woman who kept taking huge hiccupping gulps of air. At a loss as to what to do with her, Kalista backed away, granting the woman a moment to compose herself.

_Where is the bastard_? This didn't follow the usual pattern. The Polgara never hunted alone – and with good reason. There would be little point to a harvesting expedition otherwise – without someone to pull at the creature's strings, there would be no organs left to harvest.

She looked around – there. The sword, lost in the first few seconds of the fight, lay in a puddle of dirty water, its hilt shimmering in the darkness. She bent down to pick it up. _Any weapon becomes useless after you lose it – like a complete idiot, I might add_. The remembered line caused more then just a hint of annoyance to surge, and her fingers traced the acid-edged lines of the blade. As always, it drew blood, and she gave a small smile at the slight injury.

Sharp as the day it was made.

The sound of the sword sliding back into its scabbard seemed unnaturally loud in the dark, and the sobbing woman started, crawling away. "Please, please don't kill me. Please. I cannot die here. Please…" She kept saying it, over and over, a hysterical note to her voice.

_So much for gratitude_. It didn't surprise her much. Kalista lowered the bloody dagger still in her hand, her arms spread out in a universal gesture of good will. "I'm not going to kill you. The thing that wanted to hurt you is dead, there is no reason to be afraid. Calm down." She used her most soothing tone of voice, though a part of her wanted to smack the woman silly. Amazing enough, it had an immediate effect, and the woman stopped trying to mold herself into the wall. On a closer look, one could not exactly call her a woman yet. Mid-teens by Kalista's guess, even younger than the boys she had seen before

"You will not?" The girl's tone of voice carried entirely too much surprise. Filthy strands of blond hair fell half-way down her back. Large, expressive eyes dominated her face, but for the life of her, Kalista couldn't say exactly what color they were. Beneath the grime, her face held a fragile beauty, and something else… _What_? She dismissed the thought as unimportant. In a word, the girl looked frail.

Kalista offered her a hand to help her up, but the girl recoiled, lifting her own hands up, in front of her face. They shook. _I haven't got all day_. Her hand closed around the girl's wrist and started to pull her up – something flared up at the close contact – she let go. Feelings that didn't belong to her swirled inside of her mind – fear, above all, desperation and… _recognition_?

"You know who I am." Fact, not a question. "How do you know who I am?" Kalista narrowed her eyes to twin slits of suspicion.

The girl remained silent and bowed her head, hair falling down, over her face and sides, veiling her from sight. Closing the distance in two quick strides, Kalista forced the girl's head further down, brushing aside the remaining locks on the back of her neck. The _glyph _of the House Dragonetti marred the pale skin there.

A vampire's human servant… "A familiar," Kalista sneered. "Wonderful. Just brilliant. I risked my neck to save a familiar. Somebody just shoot me now." She spat on the ground, disgusted. On her better days, she called them the scum of the earth. On a bad day, well…

_Not a good day today, by any stretch of the definition_.

With a soft growl, she let go of the girl's neck and backed away. More silence followed, interrupted by ragged breathing – the girl's hand rose to touch at the bruised flesh, and she whimpered. Guilt flared up, then died. Under different circumstances, Kalista would have left her by now. What did she care if a familiar lived or died?

_Where is he? The controller has to be close by_.

"Get up."

Hesitating, the familiar obeyed and rose to her feet.

"Talk, and maybe I won't pick up where _that_," she pointed at the demon, "left off. I need to know what you saw when the Polgara attacked you. Did you see a man?" she asked.

A weak shake of the head. "A man? No, I saw nothing." The girl fell silent again, leaning against the wall. Her fingers clutched the material of her shirt, too big for her slight frame, knuckles white from the effort. Her face… she seemed a child yet.

"Just how old are you?" Kalista asked, softening despite herself.

"I am not… By my kind's reckoning, I am years yet from being full-grown. I…" The girl stopped, mid sentence, and bit her lip.

"Your kind? Don't tell me you fancy yourself a vampire already?" Kalista sneered, angry again. "Sorry to disappoint you, sister, but you smell human to me." She ignored the slight difference in the girl's scent. The night had been long, and her senses were bound to be a bit off. The only answer she got came in the form of a drawn-out, dismayed sigh.

"Well, how did one of Galliano Dragonetti's pets get here?" she asked. The girl's head snapped up at the name. "How is the bastard these days?" Moving forward, but to the side, the girl shook her head; slowly at first, then with fast, jerky motions. Denying her the answer? Loyal to House Dragonetti…a feeling nagged at her… or to it's master?

Stepping towards her, Kalista took a deep, unneeded breath. A host of different scents registered: the stench of the sewer, the staleness of the water, even the mold of a rat's fur as it scurried between her feet. The smell of death clung to the demon's corpse, the – _sweet _– smell of blood and fear drifted from the girl who backed up, further away, until her back pressed against the wall. Kalista followed, her steps unhurried and precise, and leaned in, towards the hollow of her throat, close, but careful not to touch. Not wanting to.

Kalista breathed in, eyes closed, tracing upwards to her jaw – ignoring the flutter of the pulse point. Beneath it all, the sweat, blood and grime, she _reeked _of him. Galliano. No wonder the girl put her on edge. Familiars had all kinds of uses, but… _so young_. Not that it was all that uncommon – vampires had little in the terms of morals.

Catching herself, Kalista stamped down her rising - _unwarranted _- compassion. _She choose her fate_. The girl could know something about Galliano's movements – who knew what kind of pillow talk Galliano preferred. A slim chance, but a chance she could ill afford not to take. The girl beside her – _the familiar _– shook so hard that the wall carried the tiny vibrations to the palms resting against it, her palms, on either side of the girl's head. Kalista looked at the face in front of her – pale, aside from the specs of blood here and there, drawn, eyes squeezed shut.

Drawing back sharply, Kalista said, "Answer me this, and I'll let you go." Eyes snapped open and fixed on her. "Where is Galliano, now?"

The girl's mouth opened, forming a small 'o', torn between hope and disbelief – she only needed to touch her to see which one. _No_. That was the last thing on her, as of late, admittedly short list of options. Not that it mattered. Vampires still hunted her, and the girl could not be trusted either way; experience taught her that. She couldn't, _wouldn't _risk letting her go.

_Familiars… The lowest of the low_.

She said it often enough. Why did it ring so false now?

- - -

- - -

"The _Swertings_?"

Pippin nodded, passing a loaf of bread to Frodo, who handed him a small piece of bacon in return. Pippin popped it into his mouth without a second thought and chewed with a slow deliberation, trying to savor the moment as much as the bacon. Without warning, Merry threw a half-full water skin at him, jolting him out of his contentment. Merry even had the nerve to laugh at the solid hit, and the fact that the water soaked through his tunic. Scowling, Pippin bent down to pick up the skin and took a sip, washing the food down. Looking down, a smile crept across his face. He still had one sausage - three quarters of it to be exact - to look forward to.

_Not half-bad, when one stops to think about it_.

Seated - rather comfortably, he might add - his belly full for a change, and about to settle a curiosity that gnawed at him ever since he'd first met Boromir of Gondor. _Not bad at all_.

"He means the Southrons, Boromir." Aragorn rose with the words, no doubt searching for a more accommodating rock to sit on. The Mines of Moria offered little in terms of comfort; to Men or Hobbits. "The _Haradrim_," Aragorn continued.

Again, Pippin nodded, with more energy this time, only to be met with a frown and a shake of the head.

"And how do you know of Gondor's foes, Master Hobbit?" Boromir's hand lingered, for a moment, on his shield, lightly tracing the spiraling letters that ran across its surface. "What tales have reached the ears of you Shire-folk?"

_Foes_? "Not tales, as such," Pippin admitted. "Bits and pieces of stories, old and new. Rumors of savage, dark-skinned Men who inhabit a far-off land."

As Boromir gave a small nod of his own, Pippin's excitement grew. "Have you seen them?" He leaned in close, hands resting on his knees.

"Seen them?" Boromir hesitated, and his fingers stopped tracing the letters. "Aye, I have seen the Southrons, Pippin."

"Wonderful!" Pippin let a huge smile spread across his face. "What do they look like? What clothes do they wear? Is their skin really so dark? Do they…"

A sharp elbow dug into his side. "Pippin!" Frodo said. "How do you think to have your answer, if you do not let him get a word in?"

_There is that_.

After rolling his shoulders in a sheepish shrug, he gave the Man a disarming smile. Or, rather, what he hoped was one. "Pardon me, Boromir, I get ahead of myself at times."

Boromir leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I am well-aware of it."

Was that a beginning of a smile? Encouraged, Pippin pressed on. "I'd still like an answer to my question, if you'll give it." He grimaced and corrected himself. "An answer to _one _of my questions, at least."

He waited for a moment, polite and respectful, but met with silence. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he continued, "Did you ever speak with them? If so, in what language? Does Gondor trade with the South?"

Aragorn gave a soft, quiet laugh. _Such an oddly humorless sound_… Puzzled by Boromir's continued silence, Pippin turned to face the Ranger. Reaching into his pack, Aragorn took out a carved wooden pipe, along with a pinch of pipe weed leaves. "Yet more questions, Master Peregrin? Which one would you like an answer to?"

He grinned. "All of them." _Well, you did ask_.

"I doubt it not," Aragorn lit the pipe and leaned against the rock wall. "Both Boromir and I could tell you much about these Men. I more than most, for I journeyed among them for a time."

Pippin felt his insides heat up at the thought. When he met Strider's eyes again, he feared that his were as round as saucers. "You must have seen many wondrous things! Will you tell us of them?" he asked. Even Frodo drew nearer, now, his face animated, lit by an inner light that had long been missing. _Good_. Pippin disliked seeing his cousin so drawn and weary. Perhaps the conversation could serve to distract him from... _Better not to think of it, now_.

"Wondrous?" Boromir spat the word, as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. _But why_? "What wondrous things could the Southrons craft? I doubt they have time for such. The raids on our borders take up much of their time." A bitterness that took Pippin by surprise laced the last words.

He frowned, just now realizing what the man had said. _Foes_. "They raid your borders?" A cautious question. "Why?"

Aragorn answered in Boromir's stead, "For spoils of war, for land, but, most of all, because Sauron commands it done." The tone darkened. "It pleases him to pit Men against other Men, I think. And the Southrons fear the Enemy – too much so to disobey him."

Pippin frowned. "They serve Sauron?" He glanced around, suddenly worried that invoking the name of the master would cause the servants to appear. _Orcs, not Men_. With some difficulty, he shook off the fear. "Men?"

The smell of burning leaves tickled at his nostrils. A stray thought, _I would not say no to some pipe-weed myself_. The bowl of Aragorn's long-stemmed pipe glowed heat, and smoke drifted upwards.

"Yes. Hobbits may stand as one, but we stand divided," Aragorn answered. "Do not be so surprised, Pippin. The hearts of Men can be swayed, either by promises of power, or by the threat of whip and blade."

Pippin could not help his surprise. Never to his knowledge had a hobbit harmed another hobbit. _Well_… unless wounding another with strong language counted? Honestly, that old, meddling fool of a Proudfoot had deserved that bit of a tongue-lashing. He started another question, "But…"

Aragorn interrupted. "They have little love for Sauron." He paused and corrected himself. "No. There are some, corrupted beyond repair, who honor him as king and god, but those are the exceptions, rather than the rule. Most of the Haradrim are driven by fear – the fear of Gondor on the one hand, and fear of their master on the other. "

Boromir's proud features molded into a grimace. "They fight along side of _orcs_, and raise the Eye as their standard." His hands balled into fists. "I will make no excuses for them."

"The poison of the Enemy runs deep, Boromir," Aragorn said, dropping into a crouch. "He ever seeks to turn us against one another, and, with the Haradrim, he has succeeded. Who knows what lies Sauron whispered into their ears? Do not judge all of them so harshly."

A long silence followed.

"Long have Gondor and Harad been at each other's throats," Boromir said. "Old, dusty tomes say that things were not always such, and some say that ancient bonds may yet be reforged, alliances of old rekindled. But I, for one, would not wish it." He rose, movements stiff and slow, palms wiping at the dust that settled on his leggings. Aragorn rose with him. "Too much blood has been spilled during the years, in my lifetime and before, and too many good men lie dead… but not forgotten."

He and Aragorn held each other's gaze, both unflinching. "I would not dishonor their memories by making peace with those who slaughtered them."

"Boromir…" Aragorn said, but the Man shook his head and walked to where Legolas stood watch, beneath a high arch.

"I am sorry, Strider." Pippin said, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. Curse his flapping tongue! Would he never learn?

Aragorn lowered himself to the ground again, his long legs stretched out before him. "Do not blame yourself, Pippin. This would weigh on Boromir's mind whether you mentioned it now or not." He wrapped his cloak around him, tighter. "Killing Orcs is not hard, once the arm has skill enough with the blade, and the memory of it does not linger in a man's mind." The Ranger released an audible breath, looking away. "In a man's dreams," he whispered.

Pippin tensed, reluctant to pose his next question. He asked it regardless, "And… killing Men?" Aragorn met his eyes, and the depth of memory in them made Pippin cringe.

"Harder, yes," Aragorn answered, swallowing. "And it has left a foul taste in my mouth that I have yet to wash down."

- - -

- - -

Looking at the girl before her, Kalista bit her lip. _Give me a demon to kill any day of the week. I hate this_. "Come on," she said. "One piece of information in exchange for your life. That's all I ask." At the continued silence, she crossed her arms over her chest. "He can't be _that _good in bed." _Familiars_…

A spark of anger lit the girl's eyes, her jaw clenched, cheeks flaring heat. "Do not!" A shout. "Do not say…" Her voice lowered, became thin and weak. "Leave me be."

_Probably not voluntary, then_. The discovery did not surprise her; just something, _someone _else whose misery could be laid at Galliano's doorstep.

The girl asked, "How did you know…"

Again impatient, Kalista cut her off. "That's beside the point, don't you think? The clock's ticking here."

The girl pushed away from the wall and nodded once, swallowing. "A _familiar_," she spat out the word. "Dragonetti calls me this, it is true, but not by my choice. You must believe me." A pleading tone crept into her voice. "They captured me when I came to be here. I am not…" Hesitation, "…native to this place." She stopped there, curling her hands into fists.

Kalista frowned. "New York?" _She can be from Bukuresht for all I care_.

The girl's head moved, caught between a shake and a nod. In the end, only her shoulders moved in a half-hearted shrug. "This place" She gestured above her, to the sewer's low ceiling. To the bustle in the streets above. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Or this world…"

Familiars had spun all kinds of sob-stories for her in the past, but… _this is a new one_. "Aha… You are an alien." After a token eye roll, Kalista added, "And I'm the second coming." _A waste of my time_.

The girl looked to be decidedly confused, but pressed on. "I do not know what a 'second coming' is, but if you say you are so, I will gladly believe you."

An involuntary snort of amusement escaped Kalista at the words. "Great." Her lips stretched into a smile. "Good for you." Sobering, her left hand lightly traced a dagger hilt. "Meanwhile, I'm losing patience. The truth. Now."

The moment stretched out, long and uncomfortable. Then, instead of an answer, the girl's hands reached up, surprisingly steady, wound into her hair, and lifted it away from her face. She pulled it back, into a high pony-tail, tightened and held it. An expectant, uncertain glance – what did she want? Kalista's eyes fixed on a blood splatter on the girl's cheek. Wait… _The girl's ears_! – larger than human ears and delicately pointed. In itself, that wouldn't have fazed her much, but, then, she started speaking, soft musical sentences in a language Kalista did not recognize. A word often repeated – _Elbereth_?

Silence. The girl's head snapped up, and a smile spread over her face. _Strange_. Suddenly, her skin seemed to glow in the dark, illuminated by a soft inner light. And not in a demon-like way. The glow intensified. _Oh_… For a moment, she was made out of light, radiant.

Another dazed thought followed, _not something you see every day_.

After a few more intense seconds, the almost otherworldly glow that surrounded the girl dissipated. She slumped to the ground, giving a small cry, looking desolate, no more then a fragile child - and an increasingly wet and filthy one at that. The mud that lined the sewer floor smeared across her face when she touched her palms to it. With the exception of the ears, she now looked to be completely human.

Once the initial shock wore off, Kalista grew annoyed with herself. So the girl had pointed ears and... she didn't know how to describe _that_. No matter. As far as strange went, that wasn't even a blip on her radar anymore. Not for someone who had to track seven demons of a species whose name she could barely pronounce to their ancient mating grounds last week.

_Demons and vampires_. She tired of it. Not that it made a scrap of difference.

In any case, what set that particular breed apart and made them so memorable had been the fact killing them proved impossible until _after _they finished mating. _Right _after. _Talk about a vomit inducing sight_. Disgusting and unnatural didn't even begin to describe it. Add to that the fact that hunters were roaming the city this very night to find her – and to kill her, but that went without saying. The fourth hunting party this month. She tired of that, too.

And both her hands were still covered with the Polgara's green blood.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you're not human," Kalista said. "What are you then?"

The girl looked even weaker now than she had been moments before; almost as though she had been drained somehow. She stumbled to her feet, drawing back.

"Well? Out with it," Kalista barked out. The girl flinched at her tone, and she gave an inward wince as well. _Tact_. Not her strong suite these days, if ever. She bit the inside of her cheek. The coming day promised to be a long one. "Let's start small. You do have a name, don't you?" she asked.

A sharp intake of breath – the girl's lower lip trembled. _What did I say now_?

Making a visible attempt to steady herself, the girl took several deep breaths, softly muttering a few sentences in the same unfamiliar language. Kalista frowned, again failing to decipher the meaning. Once done, the girl finally looked her in the eye - _looking for reassurance_?

"I am not going to harm you now," Kalista said, glossing over of how untrue that would have been moments before. "Trust me."

The girl seemed to come to some sort of a decision then, and a sudden change overtook her - back straight, chin held high and, beneath the fear and anguish, her eyes shone with a renewed sense of purpose. When she spoke, her voice rang out, steady and clear.

All an act, of course, but she almost pulled it off.

"Well met," she said. "I owe you my life. I am called Hithriel of Lothlόrien." She swallowed. "It has been long since anyone asked my name." The next words came in a low, almost reverent whisper, "_Hannon le_."

Kalista allowed her brow to furrow. What that last bit meant was anyone's guess. "I would introduce myself as well, but…" She shrugged. "What would be the point?" _What did they tell her about me_? Nothing good – that was a given. "Galliano mentioned me?" _Does he still call me traitor_?

At Hithriel's slow nod, the tingle of an impending sunrise ran down her spine. _No more than twenty minutes_. No time left to lose.

"Come," she motioned forward, down a sewer shaft leading north, abrupt.

Hithriel did not move. "They are searching for me," she said.

Kalista smiled despite herself. "That makes two of us."

---

* * *

Sindarin phrases: 

_Hannon le. (I thank you.)_

* * *

Author's note, Nov 13-th: 

The name of the OC (previously _Gwenneth_) has been changed to _Hithriel_ - mist wreathed maiden.


	3. Interlude: Tracks

_Tracks_

_

* * *

_

_-----_

_There. It is done_.

Pieces of debris - rock, fragments of wood and rusted, broken pieces of what once could have been axe or spear heads - spread out on the ground before Legolas. One experimental step – a combination of crunching and echoing sounds rang out, faint but audible to his ears, even from a distance. _Heavy Orcish steps will ring louder_. He withdrew back to the smaller corridor and repeated the process there. After artfully arranging one more splintered beem, barring the way in part, he turned back, passed below the narrow gateway, and entered the room the Fellowship occupied.

He walked in silence, stepping lightly, leaving the pebbles and stones beneath his feet undisturbed. Half way through the chamber, Legolas stopped and looked down. The deep, measured rhythm of Bormir's breaths stood in stark contrast with Frodo's fast, labored breathing. The young hobbit clutched something in a fisted hand that rested against his cheek; his eyes moved wildly behind closed, pale eyelids. Moved to pity, Legolas knelt before Frodo and placed a hand against his brow, furrowed, even in sleep. A few whispered words - _Valar, give him peace _- and the hobbit's breath slowed, the lines of pain smoothing out. Frodo mumbled in his sleep and rolled over, facing the wall.

With a sad smile, Legolas rose and continued on his way, to the northern guard post. The hobbits needed their rest, and Aragorn would be there, taking the last watch of the night. _Mithrandir _alone awoke. He gave the elf a small nod and stood to take his watch, in the eastern passage. Legolas continued ahead, and as he drew nearer, more and more of the Man's expression and body posture became visible in the dim light. Legolas allowed some of his tension, his alertness, to drain away at the sight.

No unseen enemy would assault them yet.

The Dúnedan sat some feet away, wrapped in a well-made, but simple cloak, his long legs stretched out before him in a casual pose. Small puffs of smoke emerged from Aragorn's long-stemmed pipe at random intervals, and he looked to be deep in thought.

Whatever little humor Legolas had left in him after the Fellowship's dreary trek across the mines, awoke at the sight. "Is this how Men safeguard their sleeping companions?" he asked, mock-serious, stepping forward to clasp Aragorn on the shoulder. The Man did not flinch, or show any sign of surprise, nor did he expect him to. _Appearances can be deceiving_. "An orc would have had your head."

The Ranger's lips curled in a smile around the pipe in answer. He expelled a thin stream of smoke from his mouth. "I am indeed fortunate, then, that you are not one." Another stream of smoke traveled through the air in a slow arch and tickled at the elf's nostrils. "Though, that speck of mud on your cheek, and the dirt on your hands could lead me to conclude otherwise."

_Infuriating Man_. Keeping his face straight proved difficult. "Is that so?" Legolas asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Mock if you will, but some have toiled so that you may rest here, undisturbed." With a quick glance to the darkness ahead, he added, "And the smell from that pipe will attract any orc within a mile of here." The thought spoken out loud sobered him; his hand brushed across the hilt of his knife and settled there.

Aragorn's gaze fell on him. "You are not the only one who toiled this night, Legolas." He shook his head and gave a quiet laugh. "There are no orc signs to the north, as far as a mile ahead."

_He has scouted the area_. Of course. Legolas knew better than to ask if the Ranger had left any tracks the orcs could follow. But… "And if they have sent a patrol this way since you scouted the trail?" he asked. Aragorn's lips stretched into a cryptic smile, the skin around his eyes wrinkling at the action – the Man had left something out.

"When Orcs sprout wings and fly, then we will have reason to fear," Aragorn said. "A mile from here, the path crumbles and falls into a ravine, wide and deep. There is no way around or over it, and there are no side passages for orcs to crawl out of in the road that leads there, just one long hallway." He took another puff from his pipe and released the smoke. "No danger will come from there," he pointed north, "and if the enemy comes at us from the east," a glance Legolas' way, "I suspect we will have ample warning."

Legolas met the Man's eyes – they twinkled with mirth – and wiped at the speck of dirt on his cheek. The sleeve came back stained, a dark pattern on the green cloth. "We will have warning, yes," he said. "And _Mithrandir _watches the entrance. No orc will slip past him."

"Agreed!" Aragorn replied. "So we may rest here a while yet. Gandalf will rouse the others and have us back up down the trail soon enough." He gestured to the floor. "Come, friend. Sit beside me, and let us share a moment's peace before our paths divide." The light tone faded from his voice.

Legolas slid down on to the floor, next to Aragorn. _We all have different paths to thread._ "Do you still mean not to accompany the Ring-bearer when his path turns to Mordor?" he asked. "To go with Boromir to Minas Tirith instead, and wage war on the Enemy from there?" He waited for the answer, leaning back against the wall.

Aragorn nodded, though his eyes betrayed some measure of doubt in his course. "It is where my fate lies. To this end was the Sword-that-was-broken reforged." He stared into the darkness, quiet for a while, before continuing, "The people of Gondor have need of me, Legolas. The time has come. When the sword of Elendil returns to Minas Tirith, their resolve will be strengthened." A hand came to rest on the hilt of _Andúril_. "It is Gondor that I am bound for now, be it glory or doom that awaits me there." The indecision disappeared from his eyes, and a warm smile brightened his features. "The Tower of Ecthelion is a sight to behold, my friend."

Legolas returned the smile and clasped the Man's shoulder. "Though I have never laid eyes on the walls of the White City, I believe it readily." He let the smile on his lips die. "But I am unsure of the welcome you will receive there."

A long silence followed his words.

"Will not the Steward of Gondor begrudge the presence of a rival?" Legolas asked. "Those of his line have long been kings to Gondor, in all but in name. I do not imagine he will relinquish such power without protest."

Aragorn cast a quick glance at the sleeping figure of Boromir. "Denethor…" he said. "I remember him well. A proud man, shrewd and wise in matters of state. His pride is well founded, I will grant it. The blood of Númenor has not yet grown thin in those of his line, but runs strongly still." With visible effort, he tore his gaze from the Steward's son. "Denethor begrudged me his father's favor, at the time when I served as a captain of Gondor, under the name of Thorongil."

At length, the Man nodded. "Many years have passed since those days, but Denethor will no doubt recognize me when next we meet."

"And there will be conflict between you," Legolas stated.

"Perhaps," the Ranger conceded. "Ecthelion thought highly of me, and Denethor grew to dislike me because of it." Aragorn hesitated. "And there were… other matters…" He stopped there, a look of determination settling on his face. "I would serve Gondor in this time of need, even as a common soldier if I have to. I have no need of a title, or of reverence, to defend the land of my forefathers against those who would seek its ruin. As long as the Steward puts my abilities to good use against the Enemy, I will be satisfied."

Aragorn's hand lifted from the sword hilt and came to rest on his thigh. Long fingers unclenched and relaxed. "There will be time to talk of succession rights, and to squabble over who is more deserving of the throne, later, when Sauron is no more." Eyes drifted closed, then opened. "And if we fail to defeat the Enemy, claims of lordship will mater little."

Legolas sighed, his mood darkening. "Very well, _Eagle of the Star_. I can not sway you, if your course is so set." A touch on the Man's arm. "But my heart tells me Frodo will have need of us before his task is done." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It is a heavy burden he bears, Aragorn. He will crumble beneath the weight of it, if he attempts to brave the perils of Mordor alone."

"He is not alone," the Man retorted. "Gandalf will guide him through that nest of vipers far better then I ever could. But let us speak of it no longer. First, let us leave these forsaken tunnels and breathe free air again. Once we are under the open sky, we will see where my destiny lies."

"As you wish," Legolas conceded. _Out of these tunnels_… Eyes drifted closed, but, behind his eyelids, an image formed, the golden hue of the _mallorn_-trees. _Lothlόrien_. Grassy slopes spread out before him, blossoming _Elanor _and _Niphredil_… radiant life, unchanging. _Nimrodel _flowed in the distance, the clear sound of water rang in his ears. "_Lothlόrien_."

"Gandalf will seek Galadriel's council there, no doubt," Aragorn said.

Legolas had said the last thought out loud. He let his eyes open – the vibrant image crumbled, replaced by Moria's grey shades, and the dripping of deep water. How much time had passed?

Aragorn continued, "We would do well to rest there a while, refresh our supplies..." He emptied the content of the pipe onto a rough cloth, held the ends of it and tied them together, tightly, with a leather string. "Lift our spirits." The make-shift pouch ended up in the Ranger's pack. "I grow tired of this constant guard."

"As do I." Legolas straightened and pushed away from the wall. "But the Shadow can strike anywhere, even in the haven of _Cerin Amroth_. Dispatches from Celeborn had reached _Eryn Galen_, last year, and continued to come until I had set out for Imladris." No outline of him remained on the ground when he rose.

"Elrond spoke of it as well." Aragorn rose to a crouching position, shouldering his pack. "Elves disappearing from Lothlόrien…And not only scouts patroling the borders. Some disappeared from sight just outside of _Cerin Amroth_. Elrond had recieved the first news close to a year ago from an old friend, a historian. His daughter, barely grown, is among the missing." He shook his head. "Elladan said that he had prayed for her quick death. It does not bode well that the orcs could get so deep into Elvish land." His foot traced the ground where he sat, erasing the imprint in the dust. The Man started towards the chamber.

"No, it does not," Legolas said, trailing behind him. He looked back just before they reached the gateway – debris, fragments of stone, wood and rusted metal. Same as before they arrived.

The mines looked undisturbed.

-----


	4. The straight and narrow

_The straight and narrow_

* * *

-------

Rurbag hissed and pulled to the right, curved blade in hand -- _too late _-- the long, serrated knife bit into his side, clean through the worn leather, carving a path of searing heat across the skin. _Too close_. The circle shrunk further as the rabble closed in on them, eager for blood -- his blood. Ufthak lifted the stained knife and licked it. Cheers turned into a roar, torn from dozens of throats.

A shout drowned out the crowd. "Hurry up an' finish off the bugger, Ufthak," more shouts of approval, "There's mouths to feed." Laughter followed.

Sweat dripped down, into his eyes, and Rurbag cursed under his breath, blinking once. The ugly whore-son before him blurred, and another flash of pain pierced his arm; muscles clenched and relaxed, and the sword slipped from fingers suddenly numb, before he tightened his grip on the hilt. Rurbag cursed again, louder. The crowd whistled and cheered, hungry for flesh -- his flesh.

"Finish him!"

Another slice of the blade. Ufthak grunted, "He's gonna beg first, this maggot." A strike to the right. Another grunt. "If I leave him his tongue."

Rurbag danced to the left; Ufthak left his side open. _Who's the maggot now_? Before the blade could slice into flesh, something hard hit his shoulder, then his arm. A rock. He lost his grip on the sword hilt.

"Kill 'im, Ufthak." _Guritz_. The little _snaga _hit him with a rock! "I'm hungry."

A blade pressed against Rurbag's throat. His heart thundering in is chest, he waited for the killing blow. Curse his stomach! He shouldn't have taken the last of the man-flesh -- the Mordor orcs had all of the sport, all of the meat, and all of the spoils. First and last.

Ufthak's attention shifted - Guritz shrunk and bent under his gaze. A growl rang out, followed by a snarled sentence, "Shut your meat hole, you flat nosed bastard."

Rurbag tensed, preparing for a blow.

Ufthak pushed Rurbag to the ground and crossed the short distance. Grabbing the smaller orc by the throat, he lifted him off the ground. "I do my own killin', maggot." Bones shifted and snapped -- the sound rang out through the cavern – Guritz fell and sprawled on the floor, head lolling to the side, twisted to face his back.

Rurbag smiled at the sight, his upper lip splitting, warm blood seeping down his chin – he caught the thick drops on his tongue; tasted of metal and sweat, of pain. Not sweet like man-blood. He straightened and met Ufthak's eyes, the color of iron, melted down for the forge. Clawed hands already fought to have their fill of flesh, over Guritz's corpse. At least he wouldn't rot in their bellies alone.

"Get up," Ufthak growled. "Orthanc filth." The symbol of the Eye stood out, tattooed across his cheek.

Rurbag barred his teeth – he would not be called an Isengard _snaga _– but took a step back. "I was born to a Mordor den, Ufthak," another step back, "same as you." He kept walking back – there was a hole in the ground behind him, deep and wide.

"You ain't one of us no more, shit-wit." Ufthak drew another long knife. "The wizard has all of you maggots by the short hairs," one step forward for every step back, "but I'm the leader here, and I say who has the last of the meat." Ufthak pointed at him with the knife. "And that ain't you, scum."

Rurbag kept an eye on the knife – Ufthak would throw it and throw it fast. The ugly whore-son could be counted on for that. Three more steps back. He didn't dare look back. How far 'til the chasm? A blurred motion registered; something flew over his head and wrapped around his throat, tight, _burning _– a rope.

"I've got him, Ufthak." Words spoken with a heavy lisp, around sharp teeth. "He's goin' nowhere."

Rurbag's hands reached for his throat, fingers trying to worm under the tight cord, failing to. Black spots danced before his eyes, his lungs burned. _Air_. He reached forward, grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled – it unwound and fell to the ground, one end still encircling his neck – he staggered back, drew in a mouthful of air and coughed. Pain erupted – a knife to the shoulder – the momentum drove him back further. His right foot met with air.

"The bugger's taking a tumble!" Feet ran towards him – to preserve the meat. Too late. He was already falling. And kept falling.

Rurbag squeezed his eyes shut. _Bugger me sideways_. What a stupid way to go.

He landed, hard. _Umph_! _Ain't I dead_? One eye hazarded a glance; up, then below. A strangled laugh escaped him – he'd landed on a ledge! And a ledge that led into a mining shaft from the looks of it. A small gateway, carved into the rock and framed by two support beams, stood not two feet away. He stifled laughter that threatened to burst out of him – orcs still shouted and moved above him. Better not to let them know he'd survived.

Rurbag entered the tunnel, fingers tracing the rough stone wall. He stopped when they touched a metal band, encircling wood – a torch. His lips stretched into a smile.

One step after the other, into Moria; freedom beckoned.

-------

-------

A sound rang out through the sewers – that of running feet? - Hithriel startled and turned back, eyes searching in the flickering light. Nothing there.

"Hurry up." The sharp tone brooked no argument. "You're slowing me down." The woman Galliano would not call by name quickened their exhausting pace, making no more noise than the steady hum of the lights above. Hithriel swallowed. Galliano had moved like that, silent, graceful… as a predator.

_He will find me._

A small part of Hithriel's mind rebelled at the thought, all too briefly; no shackles kept her bound to her captor now, but she felt them, binding her, as tightly as any wizard's spell would. Her heartbeat quickened, and she lengthened her stride. She trembled at the thought of him, still.

_Always_.

"So," the woman said, "What are you, then?" A smile carried in the voice, but not of the kind Hithriel would care to hear. "Because, human, you're not."

How to answer that question? To speak of the Firstborn in this place, a world where no man, woman or child had ever beheld the grace of the Eldar? The light of the Silmaril could not be seen amongst the blazing fire of these unknown stars. _Gil-Estel_. Her own star of hope had faded to nothing, and she'd crumbled. Fingers traced the insides of her wrists – habit now – to erase the evidence of her past despair. _Can you hear me now_?

Only silence answered, as it had many times before. A new sky for a new world… _without the Valar_?

"I will never see Cerin Amroth again, nor cup my palms to taste Nimrodel's sweet waters," Hithriel whispered, suddenly very sure. "My fëa will never reach the Undying Lands." The sharp sting of tears followed the words. "I will wither and die here, nothing left of me." The Halls of Mandos were lost to her, beyond her reach. Father had sat with her, beneeth the _mallorn _trees, grown tall and proud, and told her of Hador and Bëor, Tuor and Beren, wonder and sadness both in his voice. A gift of Man, he had called it. He would not call it a gift now - could not. She would not let him. Not while fear made her palms sweat, her blood chill. This fear of a mortal death. _No_. Less than that.

"That doesn't answer my question." the woman said, bending down to enter a smaller tunnel.

As Hithriel turned slightly to the left, she faced her own reflection -- a polished metal surface. It had been long since she last saw her own face, but she turned away.

More likely than not, the image would have only brought her more grief.

She knew what it would show – most of the light of the Eldar had slowly withered and died in her, since she had come to this place. She could feel it. A memory flickered in her mind's eye - her own blurred mirror-image, reflected in a large, ornamented washing bowl. A face she did not recognize stared up at her, diminished, mortal to her eyes. She'd shattered the bowl, and the image had gone.

If only the truth could shatter and disappear so easily.

Taking a deep breath, Hithriel followed the woman up another sewer shaft. What had the others called her? _Kalista_? The woman had been one of them, once. _Traitor_. Galliano hated her, this woman. Could Hithriel trust her because of it? She could not tell.

In the end, the words came regardless. "My world…" Hithriel stopped, shook her head and started again. "They brought me here, against my will – Dragonetti. Galliano. I know not how."

Kalista gave a small nod and started to climb the next ladder. "Go on."

Hithriel followed, one step behind. What good would telling the tale again do? "I walked through the woods of Lothlόrien," she heard herself say, "my home. Suddenly, a bright light enveloped me. Pleasant at first. Even though fear was ever present in the back of my mind, I felt safe in its embrace." Her throat tightened. "Then, the sensation changed. It was as though a thousand…" Her muscles tensed and relaxed, remembering the pain. "As though a thousand knives," she choked the words out, "were shredding me inside out. Drawing breath was impossible. No sound could be... could be heard. My vision turned red, but for a moment when I saw another figure part the haze and drift towards me. A man, and though I could not distinguish his features, I knew he was in pain as well." She'd thought to reach for him, but… "The pain intensified tenfold the closer he drew to me until…" How she had wished for him to be gone. "Suddenly, he could not be seen, and my pain had gone with him." Oh, what relief the absence of pain was!

A long silence followed. "What then?" At the opening above, a faint light called.

"The haze parted, breath and life returned, and I found myself on the streets of this city of yours." Hithriel frowned at the memory. "I still remember how the first breath I drew in this world burned my lungs, how my ears ached from the unaccustomed noise. It is strange and dark, here. No light or beauty can be found."

Kalista paused – a head turned back, stopping Hithriel's breath in her throat with a look and a raised brow. "You don't say?" she drawled. One arm circled the metal perch of the ladder, keeping her steady, the other hung loosely down her side, closer to a dagger hilt than Hithriel might like. The tense silence dragged on. "Never mind," a whisper, "With the lot that held you…" Kalista's eyes left Hithriel's – suddenly, she could breathe again. Kalista moved up the ladder. "It's a miracle you don't have an even grimmer view on things."

Hithriel looked up. "I meant no insult…" She stopped, mid-sentence, and resumed her climb. Words would do her no good. "Where are we going?" she asked instead.

"This shaft connects the sewer system with an abandoned building. It has an old warehouse I use on and off. Not much there; a car and a change of clothes."

_What then_? "Where will you go?" Would she let her go? Would she make her follow?

A metal barrier, round and rusted from below, groaned and gave way as Kalista's hand pushed upwards. A gust of fresh air hit Hithriel in the face, and she looked up, past Kalista's shoulder, to the myriad of fading stars. The night sky loomed above, lit by the promise of dawn. The woman pulled herself up in a smooth motion, giving no answer, Hithriel following close behind her. A growl met her, half-way up.

A vampire, clothed in rags, stood not ten feet away, pale face drawn, skin rumpled and paper-thin, darkened veins showing. Wild, hungry eyes glowed in the dark. The -- _awful _-- stench of him carried in the air. He growled again and looked straight at her. Hithriel stepped down the ladder, ready to flee.

A hiss of metal rang out, a blade being drawn. "I'm in no mood for strays," Kalista said. "You are in my way." There could be no mistaking the threat in her voice.

The vampire stared ahead, uncomprehending. Did he even understand the words? His head moved once, in a violent shake; his hands covered his ears, then dropped to his sides. A drop of blood, no more, spilled from his gnawed lower lip, as if he had no more to spare. _A being in torment_. He howled and attacked, a small knife in his hand. Kalista swung the blade in a wide arch – it glinted silver, then darkened to black. Head cut off, he crumbled to ash -- the knife, still gripped by a blackened hand, following suit. No trace of it remained.

The stirring wind swept up the dust.

Stepping back, Kalista turned partially back to Hithriel. "What are you waiting for?" Three more quick steps and the woman was gripping her arm. "Move!" Kalista said, pointing at a large, metal door at the end of the ally. She looked down. "_Dashtani_." She spat the word out. The wind picked up and carried the lingering ash.

_A feral_. Hithriel shivered, suddenly cold, running her hands over upper arms, feeling tiny goose-bumps rise on her skin. Galliano had threatened to feed her to them once. Her eyes closed, she stopped a moment. Panic sneaked back in. Her unlikely companion glanced her way, impatient and nervous – then came to an abrupt halt, waiting, in silence… for her to compose herself? Unexpected, the gesture struck her as kindly. _Eru help me, I am starved for kindness_.

Hithriel shook her head, and the woman moved again, further down the dimly lit path. Hithriel walked faster, kept closer, despite her misgivings. The fear of what the darkness hid from sight outweighed even the fear of her.

Hithriel feared her so.

Hithriel studied her, Kalista's back turned, trying to find something, anything that would reassure her of her nature and intentions. She did not find it. She looked… ordinary. Dark hair tied at the back of the head, tightly at first, now threatening to spill out from its confines; rounded ears, mortal to Hithriel's eyes, though not the daughter of Man.

_Am I my father's daughter yet? Or has this world robbed me of even that_?

The woman... Hithriel thought of her instead. Thin in appearance, taller then her and, while the sleeveless shirt Kalista wore revealed subtly defined, lean muscle, nothing in the way she looked hinted at the strength she had displayed before. Vampires were deceptive that way.

_Failed half-breed._.. _Even less than that._ Hithriel had heard Galliano sneer, and found herself wondering what the expression meant. And in truth, anybody Galliano Dragonetti abhorred with such a passion must have some shred of goodness in them. She saw a glimmer of hope in the thought.

The metal gate cracked and groaned. Hithriel passed the threshold, blinked once at the unexpected light – a lit lamp, a silver glow – then focused on a large object covered with old, dusty cloth. Crates stacked one on top of the other filled the rest of the room, piled up close to the walls. Barred windows, partially covered with dark cloth, spread out, two at the time over the west wall. A large, tinted-glass window loomed above. Lamp light scattered about the room; particles of dust shimmered, dancing in the air. Even the spider webbings in the corners sparkled as mithril strands in the shadows, alight in her vision. The sight spoke of beauty to her eyes – it had been long since she had seen any.

Keeping her fast pace, Kalista crossed the distance to the center and yanked at the cloth – revealing the car. Opening the door, she reached in, pulled out a bag, and started to rummage through it. Pulling out a clean shirt, Kalista tossed the bag towards Hithriel – startled, she almost let it fall, but caught one strap with the tips of her fingers.

_What does she want me to do with it_? When no further instruction followed, she secured the straps on both her shoulders and a long one that went around her waist. Better not to provoke the woman's anger.

Meanwhile, Kalista changed out of her torn shirt and threw her weaponry to the backseat. "Do I have to spell everything out for you?" She slammed the door shut just as the last knife flew down. "There's a clean t-shirt and a pair of pants in there." She didn't turn around. "Change."

Hithriel bristled at the tone -- she'd had enough of vampire filth ordering her around -- but looked down and bit her lip, obedient against her will. _Do not anger her_. How Hithriel despised that voice in the moments when she could muster up the strength to care. Her right hand moved towards the clasp on her waist, but froze half-way. Dust settled on her sleeve, more falling from above – she looked up. What was this noise?

Kalista froze and looked up as well. "Well, damn."

Glass shattered and rained down on them, a shard cutting the side of Hithriel's raised arm. Feet made a soft thud as they landed on the floor of the warehouse; a pair made a louder sound – landing on metal, the roof of the car. Kalista jumped away, two knives in hand. Hithriel counted – three of them: two men and a woman. Vampires. _No_. She took a step back, then two more. _Not yet_.

Kalista fought the first pair; killed the man – he crumbled to dust, along with everything on him, clothes, guns and knives – and knocked the woman to her knees.

Hithriel kept moving back – and connected with a wall of flesh.

A voice rang out, "Hello, darlin'." _Oh, sweet Elbereth_! She fought to get away, but strong arms encircled her and held her; cold steel pressed against her skin, under her chin. "Bad girl." His lips touched her ear and nipped. "Galliano told me you'd be easy to find." She shivered and tried to shift away.

Kalista threw a knife -- up front and center -- the last male vampire dissapeared in a cloud of dust, the gun in his hand disolving to ash.

He cursed. "But not the kind of company you keep."

Crouching down, Kalista's hands gripped the sides of the woman's head – to break her neck?

Hithriel felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten against her back; he drew in a breath. "Tell her to stop." Was that fear in his voice? The knife bit into flesh; warm moisture tickled at her skin. _No_! _I will not fade to nothing_.

Four more figures jumped down through the broken window, a dark haired woman among them, whirling a corded whip with shards of metal dangling off the ends.

The grip on her arm tightened. Hithriel thought no more and opened her mouth to speak.

_-------_

_-------_

_Tark-filth_. The Man who crossed over a small bridge, on the other, lower, side of the ravine, had that look about him. Dark hair, tall, with that cursed glow on him. Less than the Elves he'd seen, but still hard on the eyes; there could be no mistaking that. Rurbag's upper lip curled in distaste – the Man's kin had routed his den, killed any there, then chased him and his fellows, breathing down their necks, close all the way to soddin' Isengard – he spat and fingered the hilt of a knife, still coated in his own blood. The filth couldn't see him up here, but Rurbag had himself a view. Was the Tark alone? Flat on his stomach, Rurbag looked down, stretching his neck out, just as a dwarf appeared on the path.

The two met halfway and spoke, the Man gesturing westward.

Rurbag's hand worked its way under the tattered shirt he wore and clutched at a sliver pendant, a dwarf's pendant – Ufthak didn't know he took that – he'd thought all the Dwarves in Moria dead and rotting.

His breath caught in his throat as another figure stepped in line of sight – _the wizard_! The grey one! He'd seen him before, when he came to pay Sharkey a visit. Rurbag shivered, and crawled back from the edge. The Tark alone, he could handle, but not this. And they blocked his only way out, due west. Orcs, who would know he is to be killed on sight, patrolled the other tunnels. What could these maggots be doing in Moria?

Other than making him dead.

Ufthak might let him live if he came back with news this big. Meat for the boys, and an offering for... _Flame and shadow_. Rurbag let a smile form on his face, lips stretching over teeth. They might even toss some man-flesh his way. And what choice did he have? He wouldn't last long alone.

_Better hurry, then. _

-------

-------

The vampire tried to escape Kalista's grasp. _Bone and muscle_. One sharp twist and the heat under her fingers -- _borrowed heat _-- would die out. The fear that accompanied the heat, searing her skin, her mind, would be gone as well. _Good_.

Before Kalista could snap the vampire's neck, a familiar voice froze her in place.

"S… stop. Please."

Kalista turned in the direction of the voice. _Hithriel_. A knife pressed at the base of the girl's throat, droplets of blood seeping out. The thin blade looked sharp, cold, and deadly – characteristics it shared with its owner. _Some of his more endearing traits_.

"I'd do what the lady here says if I were you. You wouldn't want me to… slip, now would you?"

As smug as she remembered him. Kalista's knee connected with the female vampire's head, then let go and took a step forward… The knife pressed down harder – beads of moisture, bright red, dripped down, smearing across marble skin - he grabbed Hithriel by the back of the neck with his other hand, almost lifting her off the ground. Hithriel emitted a low, pained sound. Head dipping down, he licked at the new blood – the impulse to do the same overtook her; he caught her eye. Did it show on her face? The way his full lips stretched into a knowing smirk was answer enough.

"She's a tasty little treat. I don't suppose you'd had some?" His face smoothing out, all traces of amusement gone, he gave her a thoughtful look. "No, I don't suppose you did. It's been a while, Kal."

_Don't call me that_. Stomping down her anger, Kalista cocked her head to the side and favored him with her coldest expression.

"Darius. How horrible to see you again."

With a growl, he lifted Hithriel higher. Her feet jerked and twitched as he dangled her through the air like a kitten. The blade shifted so that the tip rested directly beneath her right eye.

"Now, now… Be polite. You wouldn't want me to get angry, would you? Our friend here would regret it."

So he wanted to talk. Fine by her, considering they still had the upper hand. In fact, why Darius didn't drill her full of holes when all this started was beyond her. Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth she decided to go along with it. She didn't have much of a choice anyway.

"All right, I'm game." Her hands went up to cross over her chest – she willed them down. "What do you want, bastard?"

Before she could even regret the last word, the knife edged closer to Hithriel's unprotected eye. Now the tip of it played against the ends of her eyelashes. Kalista saw her stop breathing and freeze.

His lips curled in an unpleasant, angry smile. "Didn't I tell you to be polite, bitch? Look what you're making me do. Apologize. Or she loses an eye."

Always so dramatic. "What do you want, Darius?" Kalista repeated, unwilling to play his game. Not this time.

His eyes narrowed, but the knife lowered slightly all the same. Darius -- the Clan's second -- wouldn't disfigure one of Galliano's current pets. Not if he could avoid it.

"What do I want?" Darius asked. "Nothing much. I want you to let this go. Go to your car, get in and drive away. Forget this ever happened."

Kalista fought not to show her reaction. She couldn't have heard it right.

He continued. "You're not the one we're after tonight."

The tone was that of easy dismissal; as if he hadn't trained her himself, hadn't taught her all – no, not _all _– she knew. Darius should know better. Did he think she'd leave the girl and let Galliano have the last laugh? Give him the satisfaction of seeing her fleeing, her tail tucked between her legs? The metal of her only knife felt cold against the skin of her lower back. Kalista glanced in the direction of the main door. She should take him up on his offer.

Hithriel's eyes widened, their desperate gaze locking on hers – nothing but utter hopelessness there. _Sorry, hon_. She had no reason whatsoever to put herself out on the line for the girl. _Walk away and live to fight another day_. They wouldn't kill her, Hithriel. Darius had his orders, and those were not simply to track down an escaped familiar and snap her neck, or he would have done so by now. That much was obvious. If they sent Darius after her, Hithriel must be of some importance to Galliano.

No, the girl wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from Darius. Later, though… then she might wish that he'd killed her now, quick and clean. Or as quick and clean a death Darius knew how to give. _No mercy, no regrets_, he'd said. _It's our way_.

Darius cocked his head to the right, letting Hithriel's feet touch the ground once, before he jerked her up again. "You're not moving," he said. "And this one time deal is about to expire." His eyebrow twitched, once, subtly – _intentionally_? - Kalista lips parted and she sucked in a breath. "Go." The old nervous tick from his younger days; it signified conflict, strong emotions. He'd told her about it – after a night of booze and... She didn't like to dwell on it.

"Go," he repeated. "I won't say it again."

The woman armed with the Roman whip, standing to his left, shifted uneasily and touched his shoulder. The touch carried an air of familiarity – of intimacy. _Interesting_.

"Darius," she said, her tone firm and even. "Galliano told us to…"

He brushed her hand away, catching the skin and cutting it with sharp fingernails. Kalista smelled the woman's blood rise up and spill before the wounds closed. The woman – _was her name Reyna_? – stepped back, bowing her head once in deference. But her eyes told a different story. The other vampires looked just about as satisfied with his offer. What was Darius doing? Was he giving her a chance for old times' sake, or… _No_. He wasn't the sentimental type.

"And if I don't?" The words left her mouth before she could clamp it shut.

The answer was simple enough. "You die," he said. "If I'm feeling generous." His eyebrow twitched again - he wanted her to leave and leave now. Why?

_My morbid curiosity will be the death of me yet. _

Kalista took one step forward – the sound of drawn blades and guns being cocked rang out – Darius held out a hand, and the weapons lowered. If it could, her heart would have fluttered and clenched in a staccato beat. A partially barred window, boarded with rotted wood caught her eye. Ten... no, fifteen paces away. She could make that distance.

"You know," Kalista drawled, "Galliano insists on his orders being carried out in a very literal manner." A shake of the head. "Not big on creative interpretation."

A blurry motion registered in her peripheral vision – the vampire beside her, the one she had knocked out, began to stir, rose to one knee, but groaned, fell back and stilled.

Kalista continued, "The last underling that tried to show initiative… the one who led the last hunting party Galliano sent my way." She paused to see Darius' frown deepen. "I hear he's still alive. Or still screaming, in any case. So, what prompted this… change of heart?

Thoughtful, Darius relaxed his hold on Hithriel. The knife traveled down the girl's face and neck in a slow arch and finally lingered on her collar bone where he began to draw lazy circles. Something subtle changed in his bearing. "You still have someone on the inside," he said, not asking – telling. No twitch or contradicting hint accompanied the words. _Damn_. Time for diversionary tactics.

Kalista bit her lower lip and ran her tongue over it, drawing his attention there. Darius was nothing if not predictable – if you knew how to push his buttons. "Don't get your panties in a twist," she said. "I don't need anyone to tell me what a sadistic son of a bitch Galliano is. Or that he likes sharing the experience with you." Her head tilted down; her eyes locked on his. "Among other things." The vampires shifted - that got their attention. "Nice that you two butchers keep so close. It's kind of sweet, really… in a perverted and twisted way."

Never speak of Galliano's bed-habits - the unspoken rule among the Clan. Like any other vampire leader, Galliano didn't exactly encourage details about his private life becoming public knowledge – he had far too many enemies for that. The vampires around Darius murmured; Reyna stiffened. _Good_. He smiled; his face a convincing mask of amusement, contradicted by the icy glint of his eyes. One sharp gesture from him, and the others stilled, their attention shifting back to her.

Darius didn't get off track so easily. She should have remembered that.

"Who's the rat?" he asked. "One of the familiars," a glance around him, "or one of us?"

Kalista opened her mouth to answer when a sudden, burning pain erupted. Sharp fingernails clawed into her leg, tearing through flesh and muscle – the female vampire had managed to sneak up on her. Through the pain, Kalista recoiled, kicking with her other leg. A knife flew past her head on the swing. Dropping into a crouch, she grabbed hold of the female's arm, twisted it and pulled her to the front, making her into a living shield. The vampire hissed when a bullet hit her in the shoulder, the momentum behind it making Kalista take a step back.

"Stop!" Darius caught Reyna's hand, making her drop a throwing knife. Darius' voice. He sounded… panicked. Hiding behind the female's body, Kalista frowned. She'd never heard that tone of voice from him before.

He continued, "Let her go, Kal," calm, composed, more like himself again. But the words made no sense - let her go? This vampire? Kalista took a breath and filled her lungs with the female's scent. Young - _scared _- probably of no particular use to either Darius or Galliano. Personal importance? _No_. She radiated tension, that of someone who had botched up badly, nothing else; a touch on the cool skin of her wrist told Kalista as much. The female, this child, didn't mean anything to Darius, or he to her. What was it, then?

Hithriel drew a shuddering breath, as Darius' fingers clawed into her shoulder. Blood stains appeared on the thin, white material of her shirt. Kalista stopped guessing. Whatever it was, it gave her something to bargain with.

"Let her go, or I kill the girl," Darius said, replacing the knife at Hithriel's throat with his hand. Choking sounds rang out, and Hithriel clawed at his flesh with her nails, her eyes bulging out. Reyna's arm twitched, as if to grab him, before settling down her side, fingers closing into a fist around the worn leather of her coat.

The reaction confirmed it - a bluff, if ever she'd heard one. Darius didn't breathe without Galliano's approval. Ignoring the sounds, Kalista ran her right hand down the female's side until she came to the weapons' belt and unsheathed a blade, smiling at the reassuring feel of cold metal against the skin of her palm.

Pressing the tip to the side of the vampire's neck, she said, "How about this instead? You let me and Hithriel go, turn around and run like hell." If she pushed forward, grabbed the hilt with both hands, she could cut off the female's head before Darius could do anything to stop her. Kalista tightened her hold on the vampire's arm – the bones creaked and shifted under the pressure. "And she," a nod towards her captive, "lives to see another sunset."

He shook his head; a strand of dark hair came loose and fell on Hithriel's shoulder – Kalista remembered how soft it had felt beneath her fingers, once, a lifetime ago. _A lifetime of mistakes_.

Darius' eyes flashed – Kalista knew that look. She'd just made another mistake. "You know her name." He sounded disappointed. "Forgot everything I taught you?" He set the girl down, his hand leaving her throat - Hithriel gasped for breath – one more shake of the head. "Never show you care."

In a quick motion that human eyes would not have been able to follow, Darius took her left arm and twisted it. A loud scream echoed through the warehouse. When he let go of her arm, it fell limply down her side, at an odd angle. Broken.

"Galliano said he wanted her back alive." He didn't even raise his voice. "Not in one piece. Now, that's one bone. She has 205 left. You can kill Bri _once_," a pause, "Let's see who holds out longer."

Kalista believed him. Silence descended on the room, interrupted only by the sound of Hithriel's ragged breathing. Another stand-off. _What now_? Not much else to do -- cut her losses, kill this 'Bri' and see to getting out of this mess. Her body shifted, preparing to push and cut – Bri tensed against her. Did she recognize the maneuver? Probably, if Darius trained her as well.

"The collar," Bri said, in a concentrated whisper, for her ears only. Among vampires, you had to learn to keep your secrets. _Collar_? "My inside pocket. Take it."

Darius frowned and leaned forward.

Whatever it was, the vampire wasn't lying. _Take it_. How? Kalista needed both hands exactly where they were. "Show me," she ordered. The blade pressed harder, the tip of it entering the flesh.

After a moment's hesitation, Bri's free hand sneaked into a large pocket and pulled out an item – Darius spat out a loud curse – a small metal collar. Glyphs Kalista didn't recognize spread out across its entire surface, interlinked by wires that charged and glowed, radiating energy. Bri's hand moved to alter the angle. A small screen on the inside of the collar displayed a changing series of numbers - a clock running backwards.

Kalista read it out loud, "1 minute, 35 seconds."

Darius swallowed, his Adam apple bobbing up and down. "Give it to me." A strange urgency sneaked into his tone. "You don't want to be near that, Kal. Trust me."

_Not by any stretch of the imagination_. Kalista remembered – markings bruised Hithriel's neck: scratches and contusions a heavy collar would make – a glance confirmed it.

"Give it to me!" he repeated. His voice rose, for the first time in her memory.

_1 minute, 23 seconds._

A bomb? _No_. Darius would have just told her to disarm it – of what use could a threat neither wanted to back up be? What, then?

Kalista allowed the blade to cut into Bri's neck a fraction more. "What do we have here?" she asked. "Magic? Technology?" She frowned. "Both?" She felt Bri starting to relax against her, the vampire's left foot edging out, leg bending at the knee. She would try to throw her off. Kalista pushed up the arm in her grip, snapping the bone at the elbow. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." With grudging respect, Kalista noted that Bri didn't make a sound.

_1 minute, 5 seconds._

Hithriel screamed again, arm broken in two places now. Their eyes met, and Kalista read the unspoken plea in them. _Help me_. Easier said then done.

"Kal." A tremor carried in Darius' voice. Acted or real? "You're digging your own grave."

_I clawed my way out of one a long time ago_. And he had waited there, arm extended. Kalista felt a twinge of guilt.

Darius glanced at the other vampires and nodded. The weapons in their hands rose and pointed at her. "What's more, you're digging mine." The undertone of sadness in his voice was real enough. "I'm sorry, Kal." He moved, and the knife that had pressed against Hithriel's skin flew out of his hand, precise, and hit Bri's wrist, making a wet sound as it entered. The collar dropped from her hand and hit the ground.

"Cover fire!" he yelled and ran towards her, Hithriel dragging behind him. A barrage of gun-fire went off. Kalista hid behind Bri's body best she could, but bullets still grazed her; one her leg, the other her shoulder. Her shield of flesh shook with each hit, soaking, heating her front with blood.

_31 seconds._

In the reflection of one of the windows, Kalista saw Hithriel, a scant few feet away. Darius wanted that collar – above all – she'd find a way to use that. Slicing at the weapon's belt, Kalista gripped it in her left hand and pulled. Giving the now limp weight draped over her a sharp push to the side, Kalista kicked at the metal ring with all the momentum that she could manage. One of the bullets went through the Kevlar at the wrong place, and Bri crumbled under her fingers, leaving a dusty residue on them. Throwing herself down, Kalista went into a roll – once, twice, until her back touched the splintered wood of a heavy maintenance crate. The belt slid from her hand - leaving a gun in it. She still gripped the hilt of a blade in the other. The collar landed with a muffled thud.

_20 seconds. _

"Get that!" Darius' voice, fear resonating in it, "Now!" The gun-fire ended, replaced by the sound of running feet. Kalista straightened, quick, and looked over the top of the crate. Darius dragged Hithriel to where the other vampires rushed, still gripping her upper arm with one hand. I could make a run for it, now. She reached for the last knife, hidden next to her lower back, and threw it instead. It hit Darius' shoulder, low enough to make him let go, high enough not to kill. Kalista tried not to think to hard about the why. Free, Hithriel shouted and ran towards her.

_10 seconds. _

Darius stood, not following, frozen in place. What was he waiting for? A shadow fell on her - Kalista twisted and blocked a sudden attack from behind. _Rayna_. The vampire lashed out with the whip, the metal biting into Kalista's cheek to the bone, narrowly missing the eye. Kalista jumped back, out of reach; leveling the barrel of the gun with Rayna's chest, she pulled the trigger. The vampire exploded in a cloud of dust with a shriek.

_4 seconds._

With a curse, Darius turned away, sprinting to the boarded window. Over his shoulder he yelled, "Run!" before throwing himself through a barrier of wood and glass. Was the shout meant for her? Kalista didn't know, but listened all the same. Who knew what that collar actually did? She wasn't about to take any more chances.

_1 second._

"Come on." Her hand closed around Hithriel's arm.

_0 seconds._

The world flashed white. Then red. And it _was _as though a thousand knives were shredding her inside out.

-------

-------

The sound of rumbling thunder echoed through the dark – _inside of Moria_? – Rurbag looked up. The cavern wall above folded in on itself, opening to reveal the blackest of dark, a spatter of light inside; a sprinkle of stars. The floor beneath Rurbag's feet shook once, making him push back, bracing himself against the wall. What was this… magic? The opening pulsed, the dark grew. Rurbag's throat dried, and he tried to mold himself into the wall.

Another rumble of thunder, another pulse, and… nothing. The cavern returned to normal, along with Rurbag's breathing. _Wait_. That sprinkling of light…

Screaming bodies fell down, into a chasm to Rurbag's right, scattered, except two intertwined figures. Rurbag stood still a moment, gaping, then shook off his confusion – fear he wouldn't admit to – with a forced shake of the head, and laughed. His luck had taken a turn for the better again. Strange or not, news of more man-flesh in the mines could only get him back on Ufthak's good side.

_I might get to keep my hide yet_.

-------


	5. Marking choices

_Marking choices_

* * *

------

_This sensation is remarkably similar to that of intoxication._

Hithriel's experience with consuming alcoholic beverages could in no case be considered vast. Indeed, the one and only time her father had allowed her to drink wine she had, in her inexperience, consumed too much of it and too fast. Before the uncomfortable physical side effects took place, the substance had induced in her a feeling of weightlessness. Hithriel felt weightless now as well, and happier then she had been in a long, long time.

It had not been so in the beginning. At first, the familiar sensation of pain had ripped through her body. A red haze had enveloped her – _no, not again _- she could not draw breath. As suddenly as the pain appeared, it vanished, and darkness gave way to glorious light, one seen with the eyes of the spirit, rather than those of the flesh. Soothing warmth caressed her, while faint voices, welcoming her, could be heard in the distance.

_Be at peace_.

And she was. Never in her life had she felt as safe. Pain and fear became naught but distant memories. What was this place? Hithriel dimly realized someone clutched at her hand, holding it in a painful grip. It was of no consequence. The light, the warmth mattered, nothing else.

And then, it vanished.

The disappearance of it hit her as a physical blow. The sensations of flesh returned, and Hithriel felt herself falling through the air with great speed. A scream tore from her throat.

With a violent jerk, she came to a halt… _Oh, Valar_! ...her arm stretching beyond endurance, her hand held in an iron grip by another - that hold the only thing between her and oblivion. All was still, except the sound of her heavy breathing.

A voice called, "Don't let go." She didn't plan to. Silence descended again.

Hithriel's stomach lurched in panic as she felt herself being swayed from side to side. One swing, two, _three_… and she was flung upwards through the darkness. After a breathless moment of flight, her body hit something hard, and Hithriel landed on the ground with a bruising, painful force. Rising to her knees, Hithriel drew a shuddering breath, frantic. _Where am I_? Even though her eyes were wide open, stifling, threatening darkness surrounded her. _Where_? Moisture could be felt in the air. She drew in a lungful of it - stagnant, chilly, but not overly foul. Fingers reached down and traced a shallow trail in the dust; the surface beneath it, cold, solid rock. Miles of solid stone loomed over her head. _Underground_. Her ears picked up the sound of running water. No matter the circumstance, she felt… drawn to this place, though she knew not why.

A feeling long forgotten began to build in her. _No_. It could not be. She stomped it down. Hithriel had thought to be rid of this fool's hope long ago.

But… What was this feeling? And… The pain that had radiated from her broken arm had disappeared, she realized. Reluctant, uncertain, Hithriel put some more of her weight on it. Still, no pain. The thought repeated, insistent... _It cannot be_! The denial did her no good. Hope chipped away at the frost inside her.

Grunting noises came from the abyss, and a body slumped to the ground, heavy and limp. _Kalista_. The woman made a pained sound, and barked out a vicious curse. Then one more, even fouler, and another after that. All in Westron! _How_? A sound of a throat being cleared, "Somebody up there really hates my guts." The words echoed in the darkness – a pause, and Kalista lowered her voice to a whisper. "You in one piece? Any body parts missing?" Shuffling noises could be heard. "I wasn't sure that I'd manage that – throwing you up here."

Hithriel froze at the words, the matter of language put out of her mind. _Not sure_… Her throat dry, Hithriel opened her mouth to answer, but Kalista cut her off. "What the hell just happened?"

What had happened? Hithriel paused, struggling to make sense of these conflicting sensations. She felt a… a connection to the world again, awareness only remembered in dreams – a memory lost. Her eyes drifted closed. Nine months. _So little time_… Why had it felt longer, then, than all the Ages of Arda? There had been more to her, once, than this prison of flesh, sinew and bone – _yes _– she remembered it now. New strength filled her, a cautious drop at a time. A hope she dared not give voice to awoke. Could it be? Could this be the end of her torment?

Unexplainable joy bubbled up – it would have overwhelmed her, if she'd let it. Her breath caught in her throat and tears ran down her face. Tears of joy – she did not mind them.

_Home_.

The Valar had answered her prayers at long last. She had felt them – _Oh, Elbereth_! -- there, in that place. Relief and joy so intense they bordered on pain flooded her. _I am home_.

A whisper, "Are you crying?" The harsh undertones Hithriel had gotten used to disappeared. "Your arm?"

Hithriel laughed once and shook her head. "I am unharmed. I am well," she said. The feeling of intoxication returned. Another laugh escaped her. _Oh, more than well_.

After a pause, Kalista leaned in close, touching her arm. Careful fingers ran over skin, searching for the fractures that had been there moments before. Not finding any, the grip tightened until it became painful. "What the…" the woman muttered and pulled her closer, fingers probing the cuts on her neck – closed wounds now.

Hithriel sported new bruises and scratches from their near fall – she felt the sting of them – but all of her old wounds had been healed. "We are safe. I am sure of it," she said, in the face of the woman's confusion. "The Valar gave us their blessing and healing as we crossed the veil separating our two worlds." The memory made her smile. "Did you not feel it?"

The grip on her shoulder tightened, fingers biting into skin. "What do you mean, _crossed over_?" The words came out in a heated growl – Hithriel gritted her teeth against the pain.

A cautious whisper, "We are in my world…" A breath of air brushed against her ear as Kalista's fist slammed into stone, right next to her head.

Another growl. "How? "How do you…"

Hithriel fought to steady her heartbeat, one at a time. " I know not." Angry eyes glinted in the dark. "But I know truth when I see it." Leaning in, she whispered, "Look inside. Can you say that you feel nothing wrong? Nothing amiss?" Hithriel had – from the very first breath drawn in that dank ally. "Can you feel weakness crawling in, eating away at you, even as I speak?" Resentment and anger long kept under lock and key poured out. "You will soon. As I did."

Silence descended, heavy and dense. Iron fingers gripped her shoulder, hurting – then left her. Tracing her shoulder, soothing the bruised flesh, Hithriel swallowed. It had felt good, this anger. But misdirected, undeserved, no matter the truth of her words. Those who deserved it, and more, stood a world away. _Perhaps it will be different for her_. Dry lips fought to speak, "I did not…"

"Don't." Clear, quiet words, some distance away, with an undertone of restrained rage. Whether rage at her, or rage at the circumstance, Hithriel knew not. _Both_. Most likely in equal measure. Silent, too drained to fear, she turned away, allowing the woman to come to her own terms with what had happened. It was not easy, being cast from one's home. _And I should know_. Regret that this had come to pass should have filled her, but she could find no place for it… not yet.

Hithriel lowered herself back to the ground. She would honor her debt, in time.

"First things first." Three mumbled words from Kalista's direction –the first in as many minutes. "You could be wrong." No emotion in her voice. "Get out…see where we are." As if she made a list. "Then, we'll see."

More silence, then a hand gripped the strap around her waist and unclasped it. The bag slipped from her shoulders. More noise reached Hithriel's ears and then a light appeared – a small flame that flickered in the darkness. The moment she saw Kalista's face, Hithriel wished for the dark back. Bile rose in her throat at the sight. Kalista's hand reached up, torn and bloody, fingernails missing, and touched the wound. A lump formed in Hithriel's throat – Kalista had stopped their fall down the pit. If she had not done so… Hithriel's heart skipped a beat at the thought. She owed her much indeed.

"We're stuck on some sort of a ledge," Kalista said, still searching through the bag. "I can see a path above but we would have to do some climbing to reach it. Can you?"

Climbing blind, with no telling how deep the chasm below them was. One slip and they would be gone forever.

Cursing, Kalista emptied the contents to the ground. "Where is it?" An edge of desperation carried in the voice.

Kalista placed the small light in Hithriel's hand, eyes already searching the ground bellow. Dropping to her knees, Kalista went through her scattered belongings, heaving a sigh of relief when her fingers closed around a medium-sized, padded container. Opening it, she reached for the small vials inside, took one and placed it in the inside pocket of her coat. All the thrown out items ended up inside the bag again, the container laid carefully in the middle.

A hand offered Hithriel the bag. "Don't drop this," Kalista said. "Got it?"

Hithriel nodded.

The woman took two knives from the bag and placed them in her arm-sheets. After some consideration, a gun holster got strapped to her thigh. Kalista had given her weapons to carry? Did the woman thought her too weak to use them against her? Resentment welling up, Hithriel watched her get up and run her hands along the stone wall -- searching for the most convenient place to start the climb from. Kalista stopped next to what appeared to be the most solid part of the cliff and placed a foot on a protrusion there. Without turning to face her, the woman said, "Something about this place rubs me the wrong way." She reached up, one hand finding purchase. "You should be safe down here." A glance back, "Try not to move around too much." A vague gesture to the left. "That side of the ledge there is close to collapsing."

And with that, she vanished into the darkness.

Alone, Hithriel tried not to think of her surroundings too much. The small flame in her hand could only illuminate the narrow ledge, leaving the rest of the vast cavern veiled from sight. Moments passed, without motion or sound. Suddenly, a clink of metal – combat erupted. A meeting of swords, flesh hitting flesh. Hithriel heard a body hit the ground, and then all was quiet once more. Her heart hammering in her chest, she moved as close to the wall as she could. She almost jumped out of her skin when something coarse grazed her arm – a rope.

"Tie it around your waist. I'll pull you up." After a second. "The bag. Don't forget it." Her companion's voice. Still speaking Westron. How did Kalista learn the language of the Men of Arda?

After a short amount of time had passed, Hithriel's feet settled on a relatively wide path. Grateful for the solid ground beneath her, she smiled at Kalista and untangled herself from the rope. _The matter of the language_. She would ask her now. As fast as she could manage, Hithriel lit the small flame again. The sight before her made her knees buckle. A creature of nightmares lay at the woman's feet, unconscious. Gray, filthy skin, covered with many scars. A torn, worn-out suit of armor of poor quality concealed most of it from sight. The beast lay on its stomach, its face cloaked in shadow. Hithriel was glad of it.

An Orc.

Never in her life had she seen its kind, but she doubted not that this creature belonged to the foul breed. Her throat tightened. More likely than not, there were others of its kind to be found in these depths. _Orcs_. All knew the fate of those unfortunate enough to fall into their hands. She would not go through such again – could not.

Kalista turned back and poked at the unconscious creature with her foot. "We're in luck. I'd bet anything this ugly son of a bitch knows of a way out of here." Indicating the rope piled on the ground beside Hithriel, she continued. "I found this on him." Making a small satisfied sound in the back of her throat, Kalista dropped into a crouch, her hand closing on an object that lay next to the orc, turning it over in the dim light. The woman laughed once and then tossed it at Hithriel -- a torch; she wasted no time in lighting it. More of the cavern became visible, the shadows retreating, but that could not ease Hithriel's fears. Not now, not when she knew what lurked behind them. Her eyes drifted closed, and she took a deep, steadying breath.

"What is it now?" Kalista asked. Her hands crossed over her chest as she straightened.

_Orcs_! Words tumbled from Hithriel's lips in a heady rush. "Promise me. Promise me that you will not let these monsters lay their hands on me." Her voice shook – Hithriel steadied it. Never show weakness. "I will not bear it. If the worst comes to pass, if there is no hope of escape left, then promise me you will end my existence, quickly and mercifully." She whispered, "I beg it of you."

There. She managed to get it all out.

Kalista's brow furrowed. "What?" The incredulous tone of her voice was answer enough.

_Eru, hear me, just this once_. Hithriel repeated her plea, letting the desperation seep into her voice. "None of my people can bear being… mistreated in such a way. The pain eventually becomes too great and we leave this world." Would she be able to leave it at wish this time, and leave the pain behind? She was home, but… had she been healed enough? The uncertainty made her throat dry, her eyes water.

The woman's eyes glinted steal and she opened her mouth, to bark out an angry retort, no doubt. She should not have mentioned _worlds_. Kalista suddenly paused, her face scrunching up. "_Leave_?" How much disgust could one word express? "So, basically what you're saying is, you just roll over and die?"

Anger flared up, but Hithriel stomped it down. In her ignorance, the woman thought her weak -- it did not matter. "We leave the shores of this world and return to the home of the Firstborn, yes," Hithriel answered, keeping her tone even. "Some linger, until they become pale shadows of what they once were. Others vanish quickly, the fire in their soul extinguished. Such would be my fate as well, should I fall into the hands of the Orcs." An imploring look, one that begged her to try and understand. "But death would not come soon enough to spare me the worst of their wrath. It would not be murder to kill me then. You must see that! I would call it mercy, and so would others of my kind."

"Don't tempt me," Kalista growled, the sound chilling Hithriel to the core. Her anger soaked the air, like a living thing. "You owe me. Until I'm back where I belong, until I'm back home, you'll keep breathing for as long as I tell you to, whether you like it or not. I…" Kalista frowned, biting her lip. She looked away and to the ground. "Deal with it." Hard words, spoken in soft tones. Her anger had ebbed away.

Hithriel pressed on. "There are burdens too great to carry and wounds that do not close no matter of the passage of time." Her voice rose with her gamble. "You know this."

Kalista's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "What…"

"Even if I somehow survived," Hithriel continued, not letting the woman speak, "every moment spent in this world would remind me of the pain I endured. Suffering that I do not wish to bear, that I cannot bear." _Not again_. "Believe what I say and take pity on me. Will you grant me this mercy?"

A shake of the head, refusing the plea. She did not believe her. "Nice story," Kalista said, "but not one I'd buy. If all this is true, then why didn't you off yourself before, when Galliano had you? I can't imagine these… what do you call them, orcs? …can do any worse."

Hithriel had trouble swallowing around the lump that formed in her throat. Why ask her that? She had no wish to talk of it. "Death is little more than a passing through a veil, my people say," Hithriel whispered. "When all else fades, in the eyes of the spirit is seen a distant place, towards which one rushes, with surpassing speed. In a morning of bright sunlight, one draws ever closer to this unknown country, and the first thing to be seen, amid a haze of land and sea is a long line of white waves breaking against a far-off shore."

Kalista cocked her head to the side, looking mildly intrigued. Her face relaxed, she leaned against the tall stone behind her.

Hithriel swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "It… it should not have happened that way. After the first time... I could not leave." She choked out. "I could not! Body and mind, hroa and fëa, bound together, like that of a Man's. Trapped." Her hands closed into fists. "I waited. Death will come if I wished for it hard enough. But it did not." The tide of memory threatened to pull her under. "Then came the second time. And the third. And..." She turned her head. "Still, I lived. When…" Her voice broke.

Kalista maintained her silence, eyes fixed on the opposing wall. Her right hand closed and opened on a sword hilt, uncomfortable.

"The pain became too great," Hithriel said. "I could see no end to my suffering. Why wait for something that will not come? My spirit would find healing and peace in Mandos' Halls." She lowered her eyes and evened her tone, made it distant and factual. "I had smuggled a piece of broken glass to my cell and… slashed my wrists with it."

Hithriel looked up, to Kalista, expecting a raised brow, a disgusted glance… but found a hint of anger there instead. At Galliano? Kalista nodded at her to continue.

"My life blood drained away, the world sunk into darkness, until my eyes closed and my heart stopped beating." Hithriel clutched at the torn material of her shirt. "And there was nothing." _Give me strength_. "_Nothing_! No white shores in the distance, no glorious light to greet me. Just darkness." Kalista stiffened. "I was… gone."

A hesitant hand reached for her arm and then drew back. _Good_. Hithriel could not bear anyone touching her. Not now.

"Galliano… he brought me back," Hithriel said. And how she hated to owe him that. "Then he killed the woman that had tended my wounds after…" Hithriel shook her head. "She was a prisoner as well. She was kind." Hot blood had spurted from the woman's veins and hit her face. "Galliano said the next time I tried something as foolish, his punishment would be harsher then I could imagine." A bitter laugh escaped her. "I doubted it not, but that was not the reason I clung to life with such ferocity ever since. I feared that nothingness more than anything he could do to me."

A long silence followed.

"I do not fear it now." Hithriel whispered. "I am home. The shores of Valinor beckon me and I long to heed their call."

Kalista bit her lower lip and looked Hithriel straight in the eye, for the first time since she'd began her tale. "Being dead reduces ones chances of rescue from slim to none." She shrugged. "I'm not overly fond of clichés, but where life is, there's hope." With a grim half smile, she added, "And revenge. There's always revenge."

_I have neither strength, nor will left for it._ "I do not ask you to do this if there is a chance of us leaving this place. Only when all hope is lost would I ask it of you. When there is no other choice."

A moment passed, then the woman nodded once. Hithriel smiled, relieved. "Thank you," she said -- and meant it.

"I wouldn't make any burial plans if I were you." Kalista's eyes narrowed, and she gave Hithriel a crooked smile in return. "It's in my best interest to keep you breathing." A pause followed. "So buckle up and trust me; we are getting out of here."

Back to Lothlorien. _Let it be so_.

A faint groan drew Hithriel's attention. She froze --the orc began to stir.

-------

-------

Eyes came open, blinking against the sudden light, unfocused. Rurbag touched his hand to the back of his head – it throbbed and pulsed – fingers came back smeared with dark blood. What had happened? In one, fast motion he rolled onto his back, mumbling curses under his breath when black spots danced before his eyes. The world spun around him, in a wild, energetic, whirling dance – like those of the Tarks he'd killed back east. Grunting, he tried to sit up, his head in his hands.

Something crashed into his chest, hard and fast, knocking the wind out of him -- knocking him down and holding him there. Rurbag's eyes snapped open, fixing on the pale – under all that sweet man-blood – face above him. His stomach lurched. _A woman_. A growl escaped him, and she pushed down with her knee, making his ribs bend. He held his breath, expelling it with a curse. A _man-child _had knocked him out! Hissing, Rurbag fought to get up, clawed fingers reaching for the leg that held him pinned to the ground. Before he could cut into the flesh of her thigh, a blade pressed against his throat, lifting his chin up.

The woman turned to her left. "What did he say?" she asked. "Do you understand him? Ask him how to get out." The tongue of Men – how he hated hearing it. Rurbag followed her glance, to the far left and saw… _By the Eye_! An Elf-bitch. She stood in the shadows, shaking her head, lit by torch light. Pointed ears, with a mug that he just wanted to bash in. Otherwise, not much like the other she-elves he'd seen – killed, _been in _– that Tark had more stinkin' Elf-magic in him than she seemed to. Easy on the eyes, for an Elf. He wouldn't even have to look away when he rutted her. The pressure increased – pain made him refocus. _Talk_.

"I understand fine," Rurbag ground out, using Man-tongue. "A man-brat and a she-elf. I ain't tellin' you whelps nothin'."

More pressure and a feral smile, teeth barred. "There are two ways to do this," the woman drawled, "the easy way and the hard way. Now, the hard way involves torture, pain, and blood by the buckets."

Laughter bubbled up, beneath the surface. Did the man-brat think to scare him? A knife's blade glimmered in the faint light a moment, then faded, disappearing from sight. Rurbag froze, breathless and still when the cold metal pressed against his crotch.

She continued, applying more pressure – above and below, "The easy way involves… less pain. The end result is going to be the same. You are going to tell me what I need to know." Rurbag's abdomen clenched when the knife bit into the skin, just below his pelvis. "So what do you say we skip the interrogation and get straight to the good bits?" The knife circled and stopped just before… Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. "Before I get bored and do something… unpleasant."

_Just tongue-wagging_. It had to be. Swallowing, Rurbag forced himself to grin wide. "You ain't got the guts for that, girlie." Men -- cowards, the lot of them. Some of his confidence returned. "I'd wager my last piece of man-flesh you'd faint at the first sight of blood." Slowly, the knife edged upwards and left his skin, proving him right. His grin turned honest. "You don't have the stomach for it." _Slaves are not made for war_. "_Snaga nar baj lufut_," he said, looking towards the she-elf. Her eyes were closed. _Weak_. He spat out, "That means you, elf-whore…"

Knuckles connected with his face, hitting his cheekbone once – Rurbag reeled back from the blow – catching his nose on the next swing. _Broken again_. The btch knew how to hit, he had to give her that. Strong too. She kicked him in the gut, hard, two times. Rurbag fought to breathe in.

Fingers brushed against his cheek, across a blood spatter. "That would be first blood," she said.

Fingers traced town, wrapped around his throat and tightened. Rurbag didn't fight back when she hauled him to his feet. _Wait for it_. She leaned in and down, until they were face to face. Rurbag shifted and growled; he hated how Men towered over him. But he'd taken all of them down a peg – taken them down by a head.

She came even closer. "How many of you inhabit this dank cave, and how do I avoid running into them?" Inches away.

_Now_. Hissing, he tried to bite at her cheek – she recoiled, faster than any man-brat had a right to be – teeth met with air, instead of tearing through flesh. The back of her hand connected with his temple; pain exploded, making his eyes water.

"What is this place?" she continued. "How do I," a pause, "…we get out?"

_This place_? Laughter escaped him. "Ha! The man-brat doesn't know where she is." Another bark of laughter. The best joke he'd heard in a decade. "You an' the Elf-bitch must 'ave been blind, deaf and dumb to wind up in the Black Pit without knowin' it."

A whisper, "The Black Pit..." _The elf_. "Moria!" An uncertain question followed. "Are we in the mines of Moria?"

_Where else would you be, fool_? Rurbag nodded – as close to a nod as he could manage with the woman's hand wrapped around his throat. "Aye, wench. Moria. And don't think there ain't many of us here. Soon, they'll find you and then you'll be begging for…" Fingers tightened, cutting off his air supply, bruising, lifting him off the ground. He choked, feet flailing through the air, trying to find purchase – not finding any. She watched him, her eyes on his, while she squeezed the life out of him.

_No_. He wouldn't go out like this. Reaching out, he clawed at her, cutting a deep path down her arm.

The pressure disappeared, and he dropped to the ground. Before he could scramble to his feet, a knife pressed at the base of his throat – making a gurgling sound, he leaned back, the knife following him down.

The man-brat punched him in the face, some of her blood smearing his cheek. "You may be right," she said. "They may find us." The blade cut into the skin – he stopped breathing. "But I don't see how that will mean much to you, considering you'll be maggot food by then." Moisture trickled down his throat. "You get me? How do I get out?"

_Out_? He couldn't get her out of Moria if he wanted to. To the west, the Tark and the wizard. To the north, Ufthak and the rest of his den – all itching for a taste of his blood. Buggered, anyway he looked at it. Rurbag started when the woman's hand wrapped around one of his fingers – then bit the inside of his cheek when she snapped it like a twig. He glanced up, a curse on his lips, and met her eyes. Pleasure at his pain shone in them; he'd seen it before.

_Strange, for a man-brat._

A shake of the head, a frown, and another flash of pain pierced his hand. Rurbag kept his mouth shut, biting down on his tongue. He hadn't screamed for Ufthak – he wouldn't scream for a stinkin' woman. And she'd broken two fingers of his left hand, not his right – _foolish _– he still could grip a blade and rip her insides out, like he did with the Tark's who'd captured him, years ago.

_No, not the same._

The Tark had a spark of fear in his eyes, while he sliced him for every question unanswered – but not fear of him. _Speak now and let this be done_, the eyes had said, _let me kill you where you stand, quick and clean and have done with it. _Rurbag had laughed and spat in the weakling's face after he killed him. _No stomach for blood, that one_.

The knife traveled down, to rest against his groin again. Rurbag looked down, then up to meet her eyes. No spark of fear there, no weakness of Men. This one had the stomach for blood – and she would have it, no doubt about it, for every question unanswered.

_Buy time_.

"You have some spunk in you for a tree-hugger, girlie," he said, his voice rising. It echoed inside the cavern. The knife cut into sensitive skin, and he lowered his voice to a whisper, swallowing a pained moan. "I know where to go, aye," he ground out between clenched teeth. "But there ain't no way you'll be getting to it just by my direction. I'd need to take you there."

A fist in the face answered him. "By all means," she hissed. His head snapped back form the blow. "Feel free to lead us to our gruesome deaths." She scraped her knuckle against his teeth on the next swing – he tasted her blood in his mouth. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Her blood distracted him. It tasted… strange. Unlike man, or elf-blood – and he'd had enough of both to know. _Morgoth's balls_! She may look like a man-brat, but she wasn't one; no more than Rurbag was.

Rurbag managed to move his head before Kalista's foot made contact with his face, her patience with his silence running out. "You ain't got no other choice," he said, remembering not to shout. "You think you and the whelp can find your way out on your own? Ha! This is the Dark Pit, youngling, and it's called that for a reason. Even some of the Uruks get lost 'ere." The woman stilled, listening at last. "Take a chance on trustin' me, or die here in the dark." He shrugged. "It's up to you, manling."

The elf-bitch drew closer, reaching for the woman's arm. "You cannot trust him to guide our steps." A gesture his way, insulting in its elegance. "As surely as I stand here now, he will betray us." She shook her head, fine strands of silver hair flying about her, landing on her shoulders. _The sparkle of mithril_. How he hated it.

Rurbag caught the elf's eye and held it – she looked away first, taking a step back. She wouldn't last a night in the dens. "No one's talking to you, _Lulgijak_." _Weak fool._ Disgusted, he lunged at her, twisting out of the woman's grasp… for a moment. She caught hold of his shoulder and pushed him back down, that cursed blade at his throat again. He stopped moving, wary.

Gesturing to the elf with her head, she said, "My friend here has a point. Why should I trust you? And note that I feel like an idiot just for saying it."

_Smart_. Only an idiot would trust him. Rurbag shrugged, casting a dark glance towards the elf before answering. "The way I figure it, I'm dead either way. If I don't show you to the Gate, you kill me. If my den catches up with us, they'll kill me for bein' stupid enough to get ambushed by a stinkin' man-brat." _Both true_. More than he'd like.

The blade cut in deeper at the name, and he drew in a startled breath. "Go on." She didn't like being called that, it seemed. Too bad for her.

"For me to keep breathing, I need to get you two out of the mines," Rurbag breathed out. "You don't kill me and we'll be best mates till I shove you out of the Pit. Then you go your way and I go mine." She watched him, a frown on her face, unmarred cheek twitching. "How's that work for you, girlie?" he asked. He'd lead them on a merry chase down the mines and lose them there, somehow. Her eyes never left his face – trying to read him no doubt.

The hand gripping his shoulder moved, worming its way under the worn leather, fingers touching skin. It caused a twitch down below – that and the smell of her blood, the taste of it still fresh on his tongue. Rurbag sneered at her, amused for a moment. This one, he wouldn't want to look away when he rutted her. She'd scream curses at him, bite and claw. She'd last long in the dens. He looked forward to it.

The blow that followed came as no surprise – only a fool wouldn' be able to read that expression – he laughed through the pain. He'd live yet. "What will it be, then?" They had no other choice.

The silence stretched out. "Kalista…" the elf called. A hand rose, asking for silence. Another moment and, with an odd, unsure nod, the woman released him, backing up a step, looking down and to the side. A mumbled curse fell from her lips.

Rurbag stood up, stretching his limbs. _Kalista_… he'd still call her man-brat.

"All right." Kalista swallowed. "Lead the way. I'll be keeping both eyes on you." He didn't doubt it. "At the first sign of trouble, you're a corpse. Got it?"

The elf sagged, but said nothing.

Rurbag's hand reached for his throat, carefully tracing the cuts there. "Aye, wench. Got it."

-------

-------

Rurbag, as the orc named himself -- _no one asked you_, Kalista had said -- led them along a great column of steps. An hour had passed already, and Hithriel felt increasingly more uncomfortable in his presence. The dark stares he cast in her direction did not allay her apprehension. He had said it would take them at least two days to reach the bridge of Khazad-dűm, as they had to take the long way around to avoid running into any orc patrols. Hithriel saw the logic behind it, but loathed every extra minute she had to spend in his foul company because of it.

Kalista walked ahead, keeping a close eye on the orc. Before they began their journey through the mines, the woman had bound him with the same rope she had used to pull her up, out of the chasm. Holding onto one end, Kalista used it as a leash.

Suddenly, she turned to Hithriel with a puzzled expression. "How is it that Rurbag here speaks English?"

The question froze her in place, made her remember. "What do you mean? He is speaking Westron, as are you."

Now Kalista looked even more puzzled. "Listen, I know what language I'm speaking and it's English. How would I know this... Westron?"

But she spoke it, as if she'd been using it her whole life.

The orc looked down on them from one or the higher steps and spat out his comment on the subject. "It's the tongue of Men, man-brat. And don't act like you don't know it. I ain't speaking it again just to give the likes of you a kick." He pulled on the rope around his neck. "Stop yankin' Rurbag's chain, or I go back to the Black Speech."

In place of an answer, Kalista yanked on the rope, hard, making Rurbag stumble backwards, falling down and landing at her feet. "For the last time," she growled, "don't call me man-brat. Get up."

He sneered at her, before continuing his climb up the steps. Falling back in step with Hithriel, not taking her eyes off his back, Kalista asked, "When you came to my world, did you think everyone was speaking your language?"

Hithriel shook her head, remembering. "No. I had no idea what anyone was saying. I had to learn English to be able to communicate." A remembered darkness passed over her face. "But when I did, I came to regret it."

Kalista glanced at her. "You spoke English remarkably well back there, for someone who had just a few months to learn it." She sounded disbelieving.

Hithriel shook her head and corrected her. "It took less than a month." At Kalista's frown, she rushed to explain. "Elves are natural learners when it comes to this. When we are forced to, we can learn a language in little time." Hithriel's lips moved involuntarily, forming a small smile. "_Ada_… My father told me that, according to our legends, the first Elves were awakened by Eru Ilúvatar near the bay of Cuiviénen."

Hithriel smiled. "The first Elf to awake was called Imin. Next to him lay Iminyë, who would become his wife." She fell in the memory, into the easy rhythm of storytelling. She had inherited her father's love of history, but not his gift of bringing the stories of old to life. _No matter_.

"Near where Imin woke, awoke Tata and Tatië, and Enel and Enelyë. They walked through the forest and as they came across other Elves, all in pairs; they woke them and Imin claimed them as his people. In the end, they numbered hundred and forty-four Elves who dwelt long together, until all had learned the same language, and they were glad of it." She swallowed around the sudden lump that formed in her throat. "My father taught me much of Middle-earth's history."

Noticing that Kalista now simply looked more lost, she cringed and shook her head. "But hear me go on and on. Forgive me; I know well enough we have no time now to indulge in such matters. Suffice it to say, in the dawn of time, when the Firstborn awakened beneath the light of the stars that Elbereth in her mercy and wisdom had lit for us, we had named ourselves Quendi, those who speak; for indeed, we were the first beings on the face of the Earth who uttered a spoken word."

With a raised eyebrow, Kalista shrugged and walked faster, catching up to the orc.

_Truly, I have not my father's gift_. When Kalista glanced back, Hithriel gave her a real smile, amused by the thought.

Rurbag gestured at them to follow him through an arched gateway. Before Hithriel could move to reach it, Kalista caught her arm and stopped her in place.

"Be ready for anything." The woman glanced around, uneasy. "I have no idea what this guy is planning."

Hithriel frowned. "You cannot tell?" she asked. "I thought…"

Suddenly, Kalista looked troubled, more than Hithriel had ever seen her. "I don't know." Kalista's hand rose to rest at the back of her neck. "Even when I try, I get nothing." The other hand rose, to ward off any questions or interruptions. "I've tried. Believe me. I'm not even getting unconscious warnings. My instincts decided to go take a collective nap and left me to deal with all this. It's… strange." She shook her head and straightened. "Never mind. Just be on your guard."

Hithriel intended to be.

A shadow passed over Kalista's face – _pain_? – and her hand reached for the inside of her short coat, pausing mid-air. Her eyes glanced at Rurbag and Hithriel both, before she shook her head. Her hand lowered to rest on her hip. Hithirel opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a curt gesture. But Kalista's hand still reached up to touch the same spot as they walked, face pale, lips tight. They passed the gateway, only to find the orc trying to cut the rope on a sharp piece of rock. Pulling him away with a jerk, Kalista stopped to smell the air. She stiffened.

"Someone's coming.", she said.

Rurbag glanced at her, appraising, cautious; his nostrils widened. He nodded, "Man-flesh. I can smell it."

Hithriel backed into a corner, her heart fluttering in her chest. Whether these men were friend or foe, she did not know, but was not eager to find out. Rurbag had told them all of the dwarves who had inhabited the place had been slaughtered. None remained here now but servants of darkness. The likelihood of finding allies in the pits of Moria seemed slim indeed.

Kalista placed a finger on her lips, commanding silence and retreated into the shadows, unsheathing her blade. The orc crouched behind a boulder and, surprisingly, made no attempt to escape. Soon, rushed steps could be heard and a shape appeared on the path. A dark haired man, his weapon drawn, others following in his steps. How many? Hithriel tried to mold herself into the wall and closed her eyes.

The sound of metal hitting metal startled her, and Hithriel jumped, opening her eyes with a start. The stranger's and Kalista's blades locked together, both tried to gain the upper hand, then broke away. As the rest of the stranger's companions appeared, they advanced on the woman. None noticed Hithriel or the orc.

_Wait_… Hithriel's heart froze in her chest… _Oh_! … and resumed its rapid beat when a figure with a cloud of blond hair similar to her own stepped into the line of sight. _Oh_! He turned in her direction, and their eyes met. Shock filled his; hers filled with tears.

_An elf_! The first one she had seen in what seemed like an eternity.

Disregarding caution and common sense, Hithriel flew to him and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened at first, muscles coiling beneath the smooth – _Elven _– fabric of his cloak, but placed a hesitant hand on her hair and spoke. Soft words that flowed like water, lilted by the musical tones of her people - spoken in _Sindarin_. At the sound of her own tongue being spoken, her resolve crumbled.

Hithriel gradually became aware she was repeating something over and over again.

"Take me home. Take me home…"

-------

* * *


	6. A hole in one

_-_

_A hole in one_

* * *

---

Aragorn turned to his left, blocking a blow from behind. On the return swing, he held back, not attacking with his full strength. Andúrilagainst two long knives. The fight should have ended as soon as it had begun – no matter how sharp, how quick the knives…or the woman that wielded them. Who was she, this woman who stepped out of the shadows, weapons drawn?

Aragorn jumped back, narrowly avoiding a knife in the gut. Apparently, she had no intention of holding back. Another swift slash. When he straightened, they both paused and eyed each other, weapon in hand – his pointing down.

_If we continue this for much longer, blood will be shed. _

"No." He breathed out. "Lay down your weapon." A wounded woman stood before him – Aragorn had no desire to end her life here and now. "There is no need for this."

She remained still and silent; perhaps considering his proposal...

A cry echoed through the chamber. "Orc!" _Gimli_. A glance confirmed it – a... _bound_? ..creature hid behind a large boulder on Aragorn's right. _A woman, with a bound orc in tow? _He'd never heard of such a tale, even as a drunken jest. Faster then he could react, the strange woman pushed past him, making him sway back, his balance lost, and ran towards the boulder – towards Gimli and the orc.

Recovering quickly, Aragorn followed, Boromir a step behind him.

Just as Gimli made to cleave the orc in half, the woman collided with the dwarf… _To save an orc_? Confusion flooded him at the thought. Both of them tumbled down the gateway, intertwined. Aragorn came to a halt just before a great column of steps, a foot away from the two. The woman jumped on her feet and faced both Aragorn and Boromir – unarmed, while they had their weapons drawn and ready. Gimli climbed to his feet as well, axe in hand.

_It is done_. Aragorn opened his mouth to speak.

The woman allowed her shoulders to slump and relaxed her stance to a degree. "Let this day be over." The tired, whispered words had an edge of anger to them.

For whatever reason, Aragorn felt unnerved by the sound of her voice. Inexplicably, shivers ran up and down his spine. Ignoring the sensation, he said, "Who are you?"

She remained silent, her eyes narrowing – undoubtedly searching for a way to escape.

A voice – _Gandalf _– rang out, clear and commanding. "Young woman, why do you attack us? I bid you, stop this folly and let us speak before you come to harm."

Gandalf stood beneath a high arch, one hand gripping the back of the orc's neck, holding him down, while the other held Glamdring at his throat. A few paces behind him… _By the One_! …Legolas, a hand on a trembling woman's shoulder, her forehead pressed against his chest. Aragorn felt his brow furrow. Another woman in the Black Pit! This day did not lack for surprises.

"We need not be at odds," Gandalf continued.

The hobbits cluttered together, back in the hallway, their small weapons drawn, looking as confused as Aragorn felt at the moment. Who this other woman was and from whence she came, he could not even venture a guess at.

The first woman, the warrior, took a step forward. "Hithriel," she called.

_Mist wreathed maiden_… she tensed at the sound and her head turned slowly, until her profile became visible. Aragorn's eyes followed the delicate line of her jaw, taking note of the bruise that covered half of her cheek. He paused in his examination when he finally reached the curve of her ear. The pointed tip of it parted the dirty strands of her tangled, unkempt hair. An... _elleth_? Aragorn felt disbelief welling up. What misfortune could have brought her to the mines of Moria? She looked tired, worn down and battered – _mortal _to his eyes.

Elven or mortal, she was naught but a child.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she buried her head back into Legolas' chest, not saying a word. Aragorn glanced at Legolas in askance briefly, his mind wrought with questions he had no answer to -- the elf's gaze held pity and confusion both, in equal measure. No answers could be found there.

A foul voice caught Aragorn's attention. And held it. "Soddin' weakling. All she does is cry an' moan. Don't know why you put up with 'er, man-brat," the orc spat, with obvious contempt.

The wizard pressed the blade down harder - a gesture of warning. Black blood began to well up on the dark skin of the orc's neck. The beast hissed and, unwisely, made to speak again.

Without turning around, the woman Aragorn had fought moments before cut the orc off. "I'd shut up now if I were you, Rurbag." After a pause, she added, "Don't call me man-brat." Angry, clipped tones.

Those two were on familiar terms. Aragorn feared as much. His jaw clenched at the thought of anyone stooping as low as to make alliances with orcs – if indeed that was the case here. A servant of the Enemy or… a captive?

Aragorn fixed his gaze on her – gravely wounded, by the look of her, but she had shown little or no sign of pain. And yet, dried blood covered almost every inch of her. The gaping wound on her cheek – _is that bone showing_? – was terrible to behold. Aragorn examined it with a healer's eye - it would leave a formidable scar when healed… if it healed.

Disturbed, he looked away. Signs of battle were not a burden meant for women to bear – even for a servant of Sauron.

Boromir echoed his thoughts, "You ally yourself with the orc?" His eyes narrowed.

The woman turned to regard him, ice in her gaze. "I'm not allying myself with anyone," she said. "I just want out of this hell-hole." Her gaze traveled across the camber to where Gimli stood. "By the description I got before, you would be a…" she frowned, "a dwarf. Correct?"

"Who are you, woman, that I should answer you?" Gimli asked, stepping forward. "And who would not know a dwarf when he sees one?"

The woman spun back and faced the orc. "You lying son of a bitch." The words came out in a heated growl. "I thought you said all the dwarves here were dead and rotting." Gimli froze, at rigid attention. "What else did you lie about?" she asked.

Aragorn took a steadying breath. They were dead, then – Balin and his people. He had suspected as much, though he had held out hope, for Gimli's sake. A silent prayer, _Valar, give them peace_, and Aragorn let his eyelids flutter open.

Gimli stood, silent and unmoving for a long moment before he spoke. "Dead?" No hope in his voice, but the ring of truth being said out loud. "Be careful what you say. The words may mean little to you, but they mean much to me. What fate befell my kin?" His voice shook with awakening rage.

Gimli's kin… Aragorn swallowed. Were they buried within these ancient halls, or did they rot in orcisch belies? He shook the thought away.

After an uneasy glance the orc's way – Aragorn felt nausea rising up in the pit of his stomach – the woman said, "You need to ask him that," a pointing gesture, "not me." Her hand rose to rest on her forehead, fingers kneading the right temple – she frowned and shook her head.

Gimli's voice rose – anger seeped in, fighting its way past the shock. "Did you take part in their deaths?"

She tensed at the words, her muscles coiled and ready to spring. Ready to attack.

Gandalf's voice rang out, "You are considering something quite foolish. Do not take this path."

Several moments passed before the woman relaxed her stance. Boromir stood beside Gimli and placed a hand on his shoulder – the dwarf stilled and turned his head. _Good_. Aragorn had no wish to see the woman's blood spilled.

To Aragorn's ears, the answer that followed seemed laced with equal parts of fatigue and contempt, "I suppose this is the part where I decide to take a blind leap of faith and throw myself at your mercy, old man," she said, her voice a mere whisper by the end. She swayed to the right, and her eyes closed. For a moment, it looked as if she was about to fall down. Beneath the blood, her face paled, as white as a sheet.

Would she lose consciousness? Perhaps that would be best.

She shook herself and focused once more. "That sound about right?"

Gandalf gave her a smile -- not one Aragorn would have cared to receive -- and nodded. "I believe that would be correct, yes. And then you would do well to answer some of our questions. Undoubtedly, there will be many. I admit to being curious about your presence here."

"You and me both, mage," she answered.

_Mage_? What an odd expression.

When no further explanation followed, Gimli spoke up. "Speak plainly woman," he growled, fuming. "Or suffer our wrath. You say that these halls are filled with the bodies of my kin, slaughtered by the very filth you would protect." His voice lowered, at the end, then rose again. "My heart knows this to be true. I would have this orc, if not all, answer for it, sooner rather then later!" Gimli pointed with his axe. "I warn you, do not come between me and my vengeance again, or your life will be forfeit."

The woman showed no reaction. She held herself unnaturally still.

Gimli took a step forward. "Speak and be quick about it," he said. "My patience wears thin."

"Listen," she said. "Nothing I can…" A sudden change overtook her, then, and her knees buckled. Closing her eyes, as if in pain, she doubled over. A pained sound escaped her.

Aragorn caught himself taking a step towards her.

She slumped down, to her hands and knees, then sat back, leaning on her haunches after taking a few deep breaths. Aragorn glanced to the side – the orc smiled, sharp teeth showing. The elleth, Hithriel, gave no sign she was aware of what was happening.

"You don't mind if I take a breather, do you?" The woman's voice was hoarse, breathless, with a faint note of... _panic_? ...underlining it. Something more then mere exhaustion… but what? Whatever it was, it made all Aragorn's hairs stand on end.

Her head swayed to the side; she braced herself by placing her left hand on the ground. Aragorn took a step forward, despite his doubts. She was in need of aid. And he would not deny any woman healing -- not if it was within his power to give, no matter her loyalties.

"Stop," she bit out. "Don't… don't come any closer."

Aragorn pressed on. "I will not hurt you. Your wounds are many and will end your life if left untended. I would try and heal what ails you." Whether he would be successful or not... well, that remained to be seen.

No response. Both her elbows rested on the ground, supporting her weight, hands clenching and unclenching. Small tremors shook her upper body. A moment passed and Aragorn found himself standing beside her. He paused to cast a glance back – Frodo kept his distance, Sting drawn, but held loosely in his hand.

Boromir's voice cautioned, "Be on your guard. This could be mere trickery."

The sound of Gimli's steps, moving towards him, reached his ears. "Aye, keep your distance lad," he said, "Something is not right here, I would wager my axe on it."

Aragorn agreed with them. He should approach her with caution, yes, but he could not stand idle in the face of her pain. Pity drowned out the warning resounding in his mind, silenced it to a whisper. Aragorn dropped to one knee beside her and placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder, feeling the muscles in her back tense at the contact. She shifted away from the touch. Strands of dark hair clung to her face, coated in dried blood. Did she fear him?

"Get away…" she rasped out, "fool…" and fell silent, as if she choked on the word. But her hand reached out to him and clutched his arm.

With the touch, the wariness returned, insistent. He chose to set it aside, for the moment, and focused on the task at hand. _Perhaps I am a fool_. An old woman of the Haradrim, toothless and half-blind, had called him that, years ago, after he had offered healing to her grandson.

"My kin is desert-born," she had said, a weathered hand gripping his arm, "at home in the blistering sun." She had not lied -- Aragorn had found them, her and the boy, on the edge of the desert, alone and unconcerned. Her Westron had been distorted, altered to suit the speech patterns of her people. "Most at home in the heat of battle." Her whitened eyes had turned on him, unseeing. "Why would a son of Gondor heal a son of the desert?"

_Son of Gondor_. The name had caught Aragon by surprise. How had she known?

"He may be a green youth, now, but he will grow." Her toothless smile had spread with the words. "There will be wars in the years to come. Your life may end on his blade yet."

Aragorn had nodded, "That could be his fate," and kneeled next to the boy, palm of his hand touching dusky skin, lips murmuring elven words of healing.

"Fool…" the old woman had said, before turning her face away, tears streaming down her face.

Shaking off the memories, Aragorn focused on the wounded woman beside him. He placed a cautious hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up. "Gimli, take what healing herbs and bandages you can find," he said. His eyes narrowed, fingers probing at swelling on her jaw, away from the open wound. The amount of dried blood on her cheek made it impossible to determine the true extent of the injury. He would have to clean that wound first.

As he leaned in to get a better view, she kept her eyes closed, but took a deep breath… sniffing at the air. A deep, rumbling growl escaped her. Aragorn tensed, muscles tightening. The warning hum in his mind turned into an echoing scream.

No one descended from the race of Man could produce such a sound.

Aragorn pushed back and jumped to his feet. Her eyes snapped open.

She moved – _too fast_ – and fell upon him before he could even take a single step back. Before his hand could wrap around the hilt of Andúril. Fool. Arms wrapped around him; a vice like grip, preventing any movement. Legs intertwined with his, pushing him down to his knees. All in the space of his one sharp intake of breath. Fear seeped in, past the shock -- he struggled, but she pressed down harder on his right elbow. Pain shot through him. She twisted his leg at the knee with her own. Cold lips touched his skin – Aragorn froze -- her cheek resting in the crook of his neck. He felt her take a deep breath of him and expel it, but no moist heat reflected against his skin, no warmth and vibrancy of life.

Only the steady pressure of the points of her teeth.

---

---

---

Waiting for an audience with Galliano left him plenty of time to think.

_It could be worse_.

Careful to keep his expression blank, Darius glanced to the side, towards a massive oak door. On both sides, two guards stood watch, unmoving – former familiars, turned vampires. Both bound to Galliano by the strongest blood oath Darius could find.

Oaths had power, these days.

The thought of forcing his way in left him; he sank back into the chair, shifting to find a comfortable position. He couldn't get pass them if he tried – or so he hoped. _Guard him_, he'd said, _even against me_.

If they didn't, there'd be hell to pay.

_It could be worse… _No. What was the point of denying it? He was screwed, no doubt about it. Why else would Galliano keep him waiting this long? Worried, Darius kneaded his left shoulder, working out a kink there, and shifted again. Under his breath, he bit out a curse. The chairs in this area offered little in creature comforts – calculated intent, rather than foresight. Still nothing. Leaning back, he spared another glance for the two guards – quick, deadly… and mute from birth. He'd chosen them most for the last quality. Cutting a guard's tongue out every few days would have become tiresome.

_When will he ask for me?_

The guard on the left, Eras, scratched at a long, white scar on his forearm – the scar Darius had carved into his skin, as a child, to tell him apart from his brother, Tyro – weapon pointing down, the hilt in a loose hold. Eras blinked twice, then his eyes drifted closed… and stayed that way.

Darius swallowed the growl that rose in his throat. _Like a bumbling novice, while an armed man sits not five feet away_. He counted – _one, two seconds_. He could have been half-way across the room. _Three _– Eras still looked like he was dosing off – he could have pried the weapon from Eras' hand, and broken it for good measure. _Four… five…_Only one question remained; would Eras' head have bounced off the floor an inch, or two?

Jaw clenching, Darius forced himself to sit still. It seemed that, this night, people insisted on forgetting all he taught them – some more so than others.

_Kal… Fool girl. _

Darius shook his head. "Guard," he called, his eyes narrowing. "Mind your duty."

Eras' eyes snapped open. He straightened, at rigid attention, the hold on his weapon tightening – _five long seconds too late_. Before Darius could say anything, Eras dropped to one knee, head bowed, while his brother signed his regret.

_Gods below, help us_. Now, they were both distracted. Darius fought to reign in his temper. Old habits died hard, true, and these two brats had answered to him alone all their adult lives. He couldn't fault them for it.

Until the next time.

"Up, Eras." Darius rose with the words, hand gesturing. "See the enemy, when you look my way tonight, not the Clan's second." Closer to the truth than he'd like, after his failure.

Tyro signed -- _I hear and obey _-- then placed a hand on a weapon hilt. Eras straightened and climbed to his feet. Both brothers watched him now, with a single-minded intensity. _Better_.

A sudden hum of the intercom, "Let him in." Darius' stomach dropped to his heels. _Galliano_.

The brothers stood aside, weapons still in hand, as the door soundlessly swayed outwards, soft yellow light illuminating the darker corridor. Darius took an unneeded breath. He had sat there for what seemed hours upon hours, impatient and eager to speak – why did his feet refuse to move now? Yet… Galliano had never kept him waiting before. An unfamiliar fear gnawed at him. Could this one failure erase all the years – _centuries _– of service?

_Years of_… He chose not to finish that thought.

_Fortune favors the brave_. At least, that's what he used to say so to a troublesome girl he'd trained. The same woman that had cost him his word tonight. The smile that came to his lips died, hollow. His word – given to Galliano. Stepping forward, Darius offered a silent prayer to whatever god would listen.

He moved past an old statue and a weapon stand, cluttering the hallway, past the touch-sensitive trap to place his hand on another door frame – carved, ancient wood encircling cold metal, still closed, a rotating camera over the frame. Galliano watched him, no doubt – Darius bowed his head, his arms crossed over his chest, subservient, for the first time in decades. _Perhaps a show of submission will soften him_. Seconds of dense silence passed – _perhaps not _– before the door opened to reveal a dimly lit room. Darius' nostrils flared up at the scent – it reeked of sex… and blood.

"You are late," Galliano's voice sounded out just as a female sob echoed through the room.

_Late_! Darius quenched the quick stirring of his temper. "My apologies, friend…" A raised eyebrow made Darius reconsider the familiar term. "…my lord." Entering the room, he forced himself into an awkward bow again. Was this deference, then, what Galliano wanted? "I was… delayed." An edge of sarcasm sneaked into his tone against his will.

Galliano sat across from him, naked and blood stained, sprawled over a large leather chair. A girl, a familiar Darius didn't recognize stood before him. Stood… hung from the ceiling, truth be told, her wrists chained together, toes brushing the floor. _Good_. Galliano had worked out some frustration already.

"You have my prize, then?" Galliano asked, hand reaching out to trace idle patterns on the girl's waist, deceivingly gentle. Chains rattled as she tried to shift away, eyes squeezed shut, breath rapid. "My captain." He continued, "He who never fails."

Darius recognized the tone, much to his regret – a cat stalking a mouse. He swallowed, a foul taste in his mouth. "You know I don't," he said, keeping his voice steady. Galliano had played these damned games with others through the years, made proud men cower and beg, or lash out in anger. But never with him. _Not once_. Darius took another step forward, throat tight.

"Do I?" Galliano asked. "I've heard…" a pause, "rumors." He rose with the words. "Rumors of how you offered a traitor a deal." Anger – _acted or real_? – seeped into his voice. "And lost the prize for it." Galliano stepped back, behind the girl. "I've heard rumors." His voice changed. "Rumors, or truth?"

Darius forced himself to remain still. _Jack, you son of a bitch_. Apparently, the bastard didn't have the decency to stay dead. He and Jack had been the only two to leave that warehouse alive – one survivor too many. A snapped neck later, and the count came down to one. If he only had time to set the body on fire, before the police arrived. Inefficient and sloppy -- consistent with everything else he did tonight.

"They... _he _lied." His word against Jack's. The word of a conniving rat with a mind the size of a walnut, and the guts of an averagely courageous sheep. The rat was actually telling the truth this one time, but… The silence stretched on. Galliano couldn't take Jack's word over his. After years of…

"Who do you serve?" Galliano's tone betrayed nothing, and the girl's body hid his expression from sight.

Darius felt anger flaring up again. "You, my lord, and your father before you. All my life." What kind of a dense question was that? Who had stood beside him when the Clans had called for his death? Who had cleared his name… lied for him that night and every night after that? Sentenced a friend to death for him?

_Kal... Fool girl._

Galliano echoed his thoughts, "You hope for her, still." A hand rose up, over the girl's bruised shoulder, to ward off interruptions. Darius clamped his mouth shut. "Misguided feelings wasted on a traitor. A failed experiment. Don't deny it."

He didn't plan on it. "It never stopped me from doing what had to be done," Darius bit out, lying through his teeth – to Galliano, for the first time in his memory. Why he gave her that chance, he didn't understand himself. With Galliano and the Clans both after her, Kal was ashes in the wind, running on borrowed time. "She wasn't the target. I had to compromise." Darius bit his lip – a mistake, telling Galliano that.

Ice crept into Galliano's eyes, warm brown giving way to green. "She is always a target."

Darius nodded, looking away – he couldn't deny it. The heads of the Clans hunted Kal for revenge, to honor the memory of their dead fathers -- _because of a lie _-- to hold back the wrath the gods. _Abomination_, they called her. Galliano hunted her to keep the truth from coming out. _We… I made her that way_.

_The wrath of the gods _– he and Galliano had shared a chuckle over the concept, once. Long ago. As it turned out, the gods did not share their view. Either way, Kal's days were numbered, over, no mater what Darius would wish for.

Galliano's hand traced the girls left cheek. "There is a fine line between compromise and betrayal." The dismissive tone stung more than the words themselves. Galliano stepped back, towards the back wall and shook his head. "What will your next compromise be, I wonder? When the other Clans sweep down on us."

_When the truth comes out, he means_. Darius' temples throbbed, his hands curled into fists. Enough of submission for one day. "Did you fall and hit your head by any chance, _my lord_?" Unable to remain still, he stepped forward, temper rapidly rising to the surface. "The stream of nonsense coming from your mouth implies it."

Galliano leaned back against the wall and remained silent.

Shoving the girl out of the way, Darius walked past the leather chair and stood facing him. "Have my head, if that's what you want, but don't..." A traitor! Him!

The girl emitted a pained moan.

"Don't toy with me," Darius said. They had shared too much, for too long for that.

Silence, except… _Would she stop that moaning_? It got on his already high-strung nerves.

Galliano's eyes met his… the ice left them. "Stream of nonsense…" Head thrown back, he let out a... _laugh_? "Took you long enough."

Darius frowned. _What the hell_?

Straightening, Galliano pushed away from the wall and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I said that I heard rumors." A slow shake of the head followed the words. "I never said I believed them."

A moment passed, before the whole trice-damned meaning sunk in. "This is your idea of a joke?" Darius bristled, torn between relief and anger. "You son of a…"

"Careful."

A warning. He'd crossed a line again – nothing he hadn't done before. Darius plowed ahead. "What about Jack?" Alive, he would always be a threat. Human, turned familiar, turned vampire – once a traitor, always a traitor.

A finger, covered in dried blood, pointed to a low table next to the leather chair. A burial urn rested on it, glinting silver in the dim light. "He shook my faith in you." The whispered words trailed away. "For a moment."

Five steps to the table – the ticking of an old clock over the bed, second after second, marked each one. The soft carpet rustled beneath Darius' feet.

On his third step Galliano said, "Simple death didn't seem punishment enough for that."

Darius leaned in, one hand tracing the spiraling letters carved into the urn, the fingers of the other lifting the equally carved lid. A part of him shuddered. _The water curse_ – he knew what he would see inside. He lowered the lid and drew back, fingers spread.

"We called it a superstition, once."

Darius turned to see Galliano walk towards him. "That was before," he answered. Before the Awakening. Before the sacrifices and the Temple. Before the Night of the thirteen stars.

_The night of the thirteen deaths_, he called it. One of that thirteen, he regretted.

Galliano nodded. "Words, symbols.. They have power, now." He grimaced. "No," a pause, "They've always had." He walked pass the table, white skin gleaming in the lamp light. "My father believed it." A bitter laugh rang out and bounced off the walls. "And I mocked him for it."

Darius remembered it. "You weren't alone in that," he said. Why hadn't they listened? "Drowning a traitor's ashes – I used to think it an empty gesture, no more. A symbol." _Before_. He swallowed. "Will you send this to the Temple?" _An offering._

A slow smile. "Why not?" Galliano leaned back against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, foot touching the wall. "Let the Robes have what's left of his soul." His left hand rested on his thigh. "It will have nothing to offer them."

_True_. Jack hadn't been included in their current plans – and he knew nothing about the night that now seemed so long ago. Had it only been two years?

"Besides, the gesture is bound to keep them confused for days." Satisfaction in his tone. "Petty revenge, but I'll take what little I can get." Galliano's fingers began to kneed at the flesh of his own thigh, working upwards.

Darius' eyes traced the lines of his body – all too familiar a sight after all these years – smooth skin stretched over lean muscle. Supremely confidant. Commanding. Galliano could issue orders naked and make others feel over-dressed.

Darius loved him for it.

A sigh followed. "Tell me about the girl."

A tinge of panic sneaked back in. "I couldn't rebind her soon enough."

"I _know _that much." Impatience.

Fighting his unease, Darius shifted. "It was a mistake to give your little protégé the Anchor. Too young, untrained still. She broke formation and went after Kal…" Galliano's hands curled into fists – he reconsidered. "…after the traitor, instead of going for the girl. Bri was a glory-hound, going for the kill that would up her rank. She failed." A snort threatened to burst out. Like she could do anything but fail. Kal could have handed Bri her head with both hands tied behind her back. A surge of pride accompanied the thought – a habit of years past, never unlearned.

Darius continued, "It all went down-hill from there." It wouldn't have, though -- if he hadn't allowed his feelings to get in the way. "They're both gone."

_Kal… _

Galliano said, "Let her rot there." The words came out in a growl. "If the gods are kind, she's dead already."

Silence. Did Galliano expect him to agree? Darius breathed in – took in the heady aroma of blood, sex and the girl's fear. It centered him in the moment.

Five more ticks of that old clock, and Galliano shook his head, laughed. Bitter, unforgiving. "When have the gods ever been kind?" He'd had a different laugh, once. _Before_. "She's out of the Clans' reach, at least." He made a dismissive gesture. "And the girl…" Frowning, Galliano said, "What did she say her name was?"

Darius searched his memory. "Hithriel," he remembered.

"She served her purpose. Let her crawl back home and enjoy the little time she has left." Galliano pushed back from the wall and started back towards the leather chair. "The reports came in."

Darius froze, mid-step. "How long?" he asked. How long until the other Clans force their hand.

"A week. Two at most." The leather creaked as Galliano sank back into the chair. "The Robes are pushing for an attack. I don't know how long Maira can hold them back."

Their spies – one for each Clan – had proved trustworthy during the years. Maira Cattaro most of all. There was no reason to start to doubt her now. "Are we ready?" Darius asked.

"Almost." Galliano's hand reached out towards the girl. This time, she didn't flinch away. "Unbind her."

Feet moved to obey – another habit – before Darius could even think to stop them. The girl moaned when he unshackled her left wrist.

Galliano continued, "Some of our… _guests _are recovering. It looks promising. Harrison swore on his mother's grave and on his daughter's life that he would have the antidote ready in time."

When the other shackle fell to the floor with a clink of metal, the girl sagged into Darius' arms. He picked her up, her face resting in the crook of his neck – she weighed less than a drowned rat.

A chuckle rang out in the silence. "His mother is alive and kicking, just so you know." Darius could hear the smirk in his voice. "And his daughter… he would sell her out in half a breath." A pause. "Less than that."

The girl stiffened in Darius' arms. Something moist tickled his skin – _tears _– at the same time as a hand, gentle at the moment, wound into her hair. Galliano. Darius hadn't heard him get up. His other hand came to rest on Darius's hip.

"In fact, he already did." His other hand came to rest on Darius's hip. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

The girl's eyelids fluttered; Darius felt her eyelashes tickle his skin. _What kind of a weakling betrays his own flesh and blood_? And Galliano trusted this man? It had to be said. "What incentive did you give him, then?"

"He sat for an hour… and watched the Ferals feed." Galliano's hand traced upwards and kneaded the flesh of his lower back. "He's been quiet ever since, and focused on his work."

Darius leaned back, into the touch. Tingling heat spread out, from his stomach down to his toes. Didn't he have something else to report? "Rayna's dead." An afterthought.

"The night hasn't been a complete waste, then."

Darius turned to see Galliano smile down on the girl – ruthless, hungry, downright cruel.

Darius loved him for that, too.

---

---

---

Aragorn held himself still. The pressure on his collarbone and on his left knee wouldn't allow for much else. A tongue, cold and moist, licked at the new sweat at the crook of his neck. What was she doing? Teeth scratched skin. _A mad-woman_! She shifted, and, with new energy, Aragorn tried to break free. She shook against him, once and gripped him tighter – painfully so. No woman could be as strong as this.

"Aragorn!" _Legolas' voice_. "Lad!" _Gimli_.

Steps rang out, teeth grazed his pulse point again, and the stem of time slowed to a trickle. The pressure turned to pain. "Release me," Aragorn bit out, keeping the uncertainty he felt out of his voice. More approaching footsteps, maddeningly slow. The sound of orcish laughter rang in his ears.

Then, a female voice rang out. "Kalista!" At the sound, she froze, her grip on him weakening. As her left hand slid off his shoulder, no longer bruising, Aragorn pushed forward, making her tumble back.

He flew to his feet, hand gripping the hilt of Andúril. half a breath, the blade pressed against her throat.

"Strider," Frodo called, suddenly beside him. "Are you injured?" The hobbit sounded uncertain.

Aragorn shook his head, out of breath. His gaze remained fixed on the woman's form. When Frodo made to step in front of him, Aragorn held him back, free hand extended. Not by his folly would the Fellowship fail.

Boromir spoke up, "Did I not warn you Aragorn?" His had his weapon drawn as well. "There is something amiss with this woman."

Gimli nodded in silent agreement. "Aye, that may be true," the dwarf said, a thoughtful look on his face. "But what exactly did she try and do to you, lad? Besides try and cuddle you to death?"

He knew not – Aragorn's free hand rose to trace his neck – she'd caused him no injury to speak of. He glanced at the weapon in his hand. _Is this truly necessary?_ In spite of his doubt, Aragorn did not remove the blade, or eyed the woman less warily.

A shout, "My lord!" The elleth, Hithriel, tore away from Legolas and stepped towards him. "Do not harm her. I beg you. She is not herself." Sindarin, spoken in a voice raspy from disuse.

"No harm will befall her," Gandalf said, walking into Aragorn's line of sight, no longer guarding the orc. "Unless she attacks one of us again." Gandalf's eyebrows knitted closer together. "She is not herself? What do you mean, child?"

Hithriel gnawed on her lower lip, hesitant. "She…" the words trailed off, when…

Aragorn cursed under his breath. The woman pushed back, cutting her chin on the tip of his blade – a shallow cut. When he made to step towards her, her hand rose – the gesture half a plea, half a warning.

"Stop," she croaked out. Crouching, a step away, she reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a small vial. From her other pocket, she drew a… device? Metal and… glass? The two items connected and, with fast, jerky motions, she pressed it against the side of her neck. To what end? A small hissing sound later, liquid disappeared from the vial.

"What is she doing?"

Pippin's voice, close by. Aragorn turned to warn him away. When he turned back, the woman's whole face was contracted in pain. A sound, a low note of pain escaped her. Body jerking, she leaned on her hands, spiting out blood. _She bit down on her tongue, most likely_. Not looking up, she groaned and rested her forehead against the ground.

The elleth ran past Aragorn to couch beside the woman, a hand reaching out to touch her back, then pulling back. Aragorn did not blame her. "You will be well," she whispered, straightening. With a glance Legolas' way, she faced Aragorn and nodded. "I am Hithriel of Lόrien." In Sindarin, still.

_The Golden Wood_! Even if the mines of Moria were but a short distance from its borders, Aragorn had never heard of an Lόrien elf venturing past the Dimril Dale.

Frowning, she shook her head and said, "I am called Hithriel."

Westron, now. Lilted with hints of elven tongue. She spoke it well.

She pointed down. "My companion is known as Kalista." There was no reaction from the woman – most likely unconscious. Aragorn felt his brow furrow. Should be check her breathing, her pulse? A healer's instinct. _No. Not yet_.

Hithriel continued, "We have wandered into Moria unwittingly and have need of your aid and protection. Will you grant it?"

Legolas came to stand beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder -- something Aragorn expected. "_Mae govannen. I eneth nín Legolas o Eryn Galen._ Fear not, child. You will have what aid we can offer you. Once we are out of the mines, we will see you to Lothlόrien. We are bound there as well."

_Eryn Galen._ It was not how elves now called the once fair realm of Legolas' birth. _Taur-e-Ndaedelos_, they called it now. _Mirkwood_. Men called by the same name: _Taur-nu-Fuin_. The great forest in Rhovanion had been fouled – at least in part, the shadow of Dol Guldur still upon it. _War will come to Thranduil's realm, soon_. Something that Legolas was all too aware of, he knew.

Hithriel bowed again, a tremor in her voice. "_Hannon le, hîr nín_. I had hoped you would say such. I am in your debt."

Legolas inclined his head, acknowledging her thanks. "There is no debt. Even had you not asked it of us, we would have delivered you back to Cerin Amroth, and to the Galadhrim." An appraising look. "You are young, yet." Legolas looked away, a frown on his face.

More than merely young – she looked to be a mortal child. _Almost_, but for a weak, yet undeniable spark of light – the life of the Eldar. Aragorn could not miss it – could not forget it. For the better part of his youth, he had been surrounded by it.

Legolas sheathed a knife. "Too young. How do you find yourself braving these depths?" he asked. "And in such strange company." Decidedly pointed looks in the direction of both the kneeling woman and the orc accompanied the question.

"Strange company indeed," said Gandalf. "I have been called by many names in my long years, but you may call me Gandalf." Aragorn saw Hithriel's eyes widen at the statement. "We would all introduce ourselves, but courtesies such as those take time. Time better spent in pursuit of a tale." Shadows danced on the walls as he gestured with his staff. "A tale of how all this came to pass." He leaned back, against the wall. "We will listen."

Hithriel looked down, towards the woman. "How I came to be here?" Her back straightened. "It is a strange tale. Stranger, I fear, then even one of your years and wisdom will care to entertain, _Mithrandir_." At his raised eyebrow, she smiled and explained, "What elfling has not heard of the Grey Pilgrim? The Valar must watch over me indeed if the first Company I crossed paths with after my return happened to be under your wise leadership." A respectful incline of the head. "I am most grateful for it."

The orc made a disgusted sound. "Sure, elf-bitch. I recon the high and mighty Valar 'ave nottin' better to do then watch you pussyfooting about. And I've heard a thing or two 'bout your 'Grey Pilgrim'. The way Sharkey says it, he's nottin' but a stinkin' pile of…" Boromir yanked hard at the rope that was tied around the orc's neck. It tightened -- the beast choked and fell silent.

After a moment of silence, Hithriel said, "What I am about to tell you will seem strange, improbable at best, a lie at worst, but I assure you, 'tis nothing but the truth. I beg you, my good lords, stay your judgment on the matter 'til you hear the tale in full."

"Speak, child," Gandalf said. "We will hear you out."

She swallowed. "Nine months have passed since I've seen any of my kin. You, my lord," she said, turning to Legolas, "are the first of my kind I have seen in all that time. Forgive my over-familiarity. When I saw you, I could not help but fly to your side."

Legolas shook his head. "_Ú-moe edaved_. Worry not," he said.

"For the length of those nine months, I had been imprisoned by creatures I have no wish to speak of." At Gimli's angry growl and Aragorn's pointed look at the orc, she said, "I did not fall into orcish hands. The beasts that held me were not of this world." An uncomfortable silence fell upon the chamber.

_Have her trials damaged her mind?_

"Do you mean to say this woman comes from another world?" Aragorn asked, casting a worried glance to the prone figure.

Hithriel nodded in confirmation, but said no more. Unable to hide his disbelief, Gimli snorted, taking a step back. Even Legolas looked to be on a verge of expressing a similar view, although more eloquently.

"Who is she?" Aragorn asked, "Why did she attack me?" The orc groaned and coughed again - reminding Aragorn of his other, grimmer suspicions.

The dwarf gave a curt nod and asked a question of his own, "The orc. Why protect it?"

Hithriel took a breath to answer - a faint sound echoed through the halls. The woman they spoke of climbed to her feet, stiff and slow. Aragorn's grip on his sword tightened; taking a step forward, he faced her, wary. She avoided his gaze, trying to wipe the blood that clung to the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, but only succeeded in smearing it across her unmarred cheek. Legolas made as if to notch an arrow.

"_Daro_! Please," Hithriel cried. She took hold of Legolas' arm and pleaded. "Do not harm her. She is not in league with the orcs. Believe me when I tell you, she poses no threat to you."

Aragorn was not convinced of that.

Grunting, Gimli drew a throwing axe with his free hand. "What have you to say for yourself, woman? Or do you let the elf fight all your battles for you?"

Cocking her head to the side, the woman cleared her throat. "I can speak for myself, short-stack." she bit out, not able to fully mask the tremor in her voice. Still weak, then. _Good_.

Gimli bristled at the name. "Short I may be, woman, but my axe can find its way to your throat just the same."

The woman's attention shifted. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I said I would throw myself at your mercy, old man," a nod Gandalf's way, "but since I'm here, my head still firmly attached to my shoulders, it will do." Did she think that they would kill her as she laid there - as Orcs would?

Aragorn kept a close watch on her as she stepped forward, closer to him. His hand wrapped around the hilt of Anduril- wanting to pull it out. He willed himself to let go.

"Just who the hell are you people?" she muttered quietly.

The orc laughed - a harsh and cruel sound. "_Gurz_, man-brat. Death to the likes of us." He sneered at her. "Better start prayin' to whatever dark power made you, _rűk_."

Aragorn saw Gandalf's face darken at the word, but could not recognize the meaning of it. Now more then ever, he was certain the woman could not be trusted – no more than any orc could be.

_---_

_---_

_---_

_The air burned. Darius's skin blistered, his hands rose up, to cover his face. His feet still moved forward. How would they not? Gitano – his lord – called for him, screaming. One more step. The skin of his palms peeled off from the heat. Another step._

A strong hand gripped his arm, holding him back. Galliano.

"Let him go." The screaming stopped, gave way to heavy silence. "He's long gone."

He is your father, and my sworn lord, Darius wanted to say. He couldn't form the words. The heat grew.

"Let go." The voice was female now. Kal. She stood before him, sword in hand. "It's hard to run with just one foot through the door." A wink followed the words.

Darius swallowed, turning his back on the fire. The Awakening had begun.

"Run!"

Darius' eyes snapped open. Fire and death… would this dream haunt him for the rest of his days? Holding himself still, he forced his muscles to relax, one at a time. A moment more and he gently removed an arm, flung loosely over his waist.

Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs to the right, the bare soles of his feet touching the floor. He rose from the bed, naked.

A glance back showed that the girl drifted to the edge of the bed, away from them both, curled in a fetal position. Galliano wouldn't be pleased when he woke up -- he enjoyed a warm body next to him in the day-time.

Darius walked over to the window and opened the blinds -- it confirmed what every cell in his body had told him already -- the sun had set. The lights of the City had come blinking on, bright and blinding, earthly stars that hid the ones in the sky above. Darius shifted, leaning back against the window-sill.

A hand reached out to crack the window open – the traffic noise, the bustle of the streets, the heady aroma of humanity, it all drifted upwards, ten stories high. Darius took a deep breath of it.

This world – it was _home_.

He would be sad to leave it.

---


	7. Trust

_---_

_T__rust_

* * *

---

The temperature in the room dropped by a hundred degrees or so. Kalista's brow furrowed.

_Rűk?_

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

The grey haired man's gaze locked on hers with such intensity that she nearly took an unconscious step back. Shaking it off, she stood her ground and stared back - for about two seconds. _Those eyes_… they made her hands shake. Kalista looked down on them, in disbelief. Weak – afraid – he'd made her feel that with a glance. _Souls below_…

Magic! Kalista could smell it on him, thick and pungent. The old man had power, and wasn't shy about using it, either. What had he called himself? Gandalf? A moment passed, and Gandalf already loomed over the kneeling orc. Kalista balled her empty hands into fists. Quick and agile, for a man with one foot already in the grave.

"_Rűk?_ Why would you call this woman by such a name, beast of Morgoth?" Gandalf asked. "Speak truthfully. If any falsehood should pass your lips, I will know of it."

Kalista found herself believing it, with a sinking feeling in her gut.

Rurbag shrunk away from his approach, teeth bared. A broad shouldered man, a shield strapped to his back, grabbed the orc by the arms and forced him to still. _Snap his scrawny neck and save me the bother_.

"Human? You sure 'bout that wizard?" Rurbag made a harsh sound in the back of his throat and spat on the ground. "Could 'ave fooled me."

Kalista felt her stomach drop.

The man standing guard over the orc narrowed his eyes and pushed Rurbag to the ground. "Explain yourself, or die." He growled. "I leave the choice to you."

"You kill me, now, and you'll never know." The orc pointed her way, "She ain't likely to yap 'bout it."

_That double-crossing bastard_. That the orc would sell her out came as no surprise, just that fact that she managed to walk into it so easily.

A musical voice spoke up. The tones vibrated on a higher frequency than human ones – it made her ears ring. "Let him speak. My knife, or your axe, Gimli, will find him soon enough. What does a moment more matter?"

"Aye," 'Gimli' said, clutching the throwing axe, now in his left hand. "The elf has a point. Very well then, let the orc speak, but be warned; I care not what he says or what information he offers. As far as this dwarf is concerned, he has long since drawn his last breath." The words lingered. "He is naught but a walking corpse."

Rurbag straightened and hissed, "You need a _shara's_ say-so to kill me, dwarf?"

The orc struggled with his bonds and winced – Kalista knew he would. She had rigged the ropes to tighten when he moved. The son of a bitch had to be in some considerable pain by now... The thought brought a smile to her lips.

Rurbag continued, "Better bend down for a buggering too, then." A sneer bared his rotting teeth. "Ain't that right, dwarf?" When he couldn't move his arms, Rurbag rotated his shoulder blades slowly instead. "You wait for his say so before you take a piss, I reckon."

_Real smart._ Kalista stopped herself from groaning out loud – it figured that the rat wouldn't have the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Gimli's eyes flashed, his jaw clenched. He muttered something low, before saying, "Ask your questions, Gandalf." Slowly, the axe lowered. "Quickly."

The man standing guard grabbed the orc by the back of the neck and pushed him down. "Do not try our patience, beast," he said. "You will find it lacking." Rurbag's head snapped back, sharp teeth flashing.

In the brief struggle, the rotting material of Rurbag's shirt tore open and a shining pendant, hanging on a silver chain, both of exquisite craftsmanship, appeared. Kalista's eyebrows arched up. _Nice_. It stood out, to say the least; a jeweler's dream, against the background of rotting clothes, and crude armor... _Trouble ahead_.

At the sight, Gimli took a slow breath, his lips parted, and a low, rumbling sound tore from his throat. "Ori's pendant! I would know it amongst a hundred others by the mithril in its center. He would never part with it." A pause. "He is dead, then." A moment more and the throwing axe already moved in his hand.

Rurbag leaned back, swayed on his knees and tried to twist away; to escape the depth of hatred behind the dwarf's eyes.

_Good luck_. Kalista had seen such hate before – there could be no escaping it. _But_… A shiver ran through her. Visible, boiling rage… only three steps away. And she couldn't feel even a twinge of it. Nothing. This close, it should have set her blood on fire. Two years she'd lived with this… curse. Sent prayers without count to gods she wouldn't worship to be rid of it. Sent silent pleas to her once-God, but he'd stopped listening decades ago. Screamed curses when all prayers went unanswered. Withdrawn into silence as time went on. Then came to depend on it. Made it her strength.

Be careful what you wish for – _isn't that what they say _– you might just get it.

In that split second, Rurbag glanced her way - so _now _he wanted her help. Hells, the mood she was in, she'd cheer short stack on while he tore the orc limb from limb. The sight of Rurbag's ugly head bouncing of the pavement could have brightened up an otherwise lousy day… and save her having to face questions best left unanswered.

Rurbag deserved whatever pain came his way. That was a given. Her senses were off here… _More than off. I'm standing naked, deaf and blind in the dark... _Kalista shook the thought away. Regardless, the evil son of a bitch deserved to be put down sooner rather then later.

Unfortunately, this particular evil son of a bitch just happened to be her guide.

The axe flew from the dwarf's fingers, right towards the orc. Kalista moved forward, sharply to the side, catching it, only inches from her skin; a one second delay in her reflexes and the axe would have gutted her, level with Rurbag's head. The dwarf had good aim; she had to give him that.

"Gimli!" The wizard's voice rang out.

"I warned you once," Gimli ground out. The dwarf stood his ground, legs spread, balanced, head held high. _Dangerous_. "I will not say it again." One step forward. "Step aside."

_Or else_. The rest of them seemed to agree with that. Saving Rurbag's hide turned out to be a full time job. Kalista's fingers tightened on the axe hilt. "As much as I would like to see Rurbag shortened by a few inches, preferably from the top down, I wouldn't advise it just yet." Not while she needed him. Who could tell if these men knew how to find their way out? She wouldn't risk it, wouldn't trust them to lead her. Trust could – _would _– get you killed. The Awakening had drilled that lesson into her.

"Going out on a limb here, I'll say none of us are thinking of taking up permanent residence in this hell hole," Kalista said. "If you want to leave this place alive, you'll listen."

Still nearly shaking with rage, the dwarf took another step towards her. "Step aside." The low tones almost made her reconsider.

Kalista remained where she was, careful to appear motionless, but repositioned her fingers on the hilt. Throwing axes were not her weapons of choice, but at this distance, she wouldn't miss her target. For all the good it would do her; short stack's death would only lead to a whole new set of problems.

_Don't blow this_. "I'm doing you a favor," Kalista said, softening her voice. _Believe it or not._ "The rat knows his way around these caverns and can show us a way to the surface," a glance towards the wizard, "If you let him."

"You would trust _that _to lead you?" the broad shouldered man asked, his voice drifting in from behind, heavy with contempt. Thinking her insane, no doubt. Kalista didn't take it personally – she couldn't have cared less for his opinion. Rurbag alone, she could handle. These men… she wasn't too sure of that.

Shrugging, she answered, "There is zero trust involved in this arrangement." Her boot connected with the side of Rurbag's head on the last word – he groaned and doubled over. Good. "If he tries something stupid, he's dead. He knows that." _Backstab me again, and you'll wish I'd let them kill you_. "I'm getting out of here – alive." Kalista pointed at Hithriel, "We both are. And if I have to bargain with this," a glance at the orc, "to do that, that's fine by me."

Seeing the dwarf's expression darken further and the dark haired man's lip curl – _distaste_? - she added, "Do you have a problem with that?"

Short stack looked about ready to gut her, but the broad shouldered man spoke up, "Indeed, we do." He shifted to adjust the shield strapped to his back and grabbed the end of the rope that bound the orc. "Do not think us eager to trust anything you say." A pause. "Do not cross your bounds, woman. None of us have love for those who would side with orcs."

Rurbag hissed out something in that guttural tongue of his, and the man pulled on the makeshift leash. Digging his heals in, the orc refused to climb to his feet. The rope tightened around his throat – ashen, the rat struggled for breath, before the man noticed what he was doing and loosened the rope. Released, Rurbag coughed violently, drawing the air into his lungs with abandon.

_Fact of life number one_, Darius had said, _at times it pays to keep ones big mouth shut_.

A wave of fatigue crashed over her again, and Kalista braced herself, not allowing it to show. _Never show weakness._ Kalista sneered at the man instead. "There wasn't an abundance of other options available. I'm sorry if my unseemly struggle for survival offends your delicate sensibilities."

Fact of life number one – once again blatantly ignored. Darius' raspy voice rang in her head, _Damn it, girl! Don't go with the first thing that pops in your head; think first. And in case you can't manage it, keep your damn mouth shut till spoken to. You get in enough trouble as it is… Pass the bottle_. Her lips stretched into an unwilling smile. Darius had his moments… before he screwed up her life beyond repair. Him and that pile of horse dung, Galliano.

Gimli kept his eyes on her – _oh, that look again_. Out for blood – both hers and the rat's. The man's eyes narrowed to slits, his hand reached for a sword hilt and lingered there. Kalista considered her options and frowned; none appealed to her much.

Fact of life number two. _Necessary choices are never pleasant. All you can do is choose the one least likely to come back and bite you in the ass. _And fact was, without Rurbag, she had no way of getting out if they turned on her. Like it or not, she needed to keep the vermin alive.

"Boromir," another voice rang out, "Calmly, friend. There is much that is unknown here." That dark-haired man… She'd attacked him, moments before. When he glanced her way, Kalista dropped her head, unwilling to meet his eyes.

_She warned him – __someone _

A shake of the head, and Kalista rid herself of the memory. Just like that – habit, now. Did he know? If not for Hithriel, if she hadn't taken that backpack with that poison – the junk still moved through her veins, little jagged shards of glass – he would have met his ancestors by nightfall. The sun was still high, outside – she could feel it.

"Who are you?" the man-that-should-be-dead asked, keeping a cautious distance between them.

_What are you_, he meant. Keeping a civil tongue for once, she answered, "Kalista." She supposed they could skip the 'pleased to meet you' part. A pointed look the elf's way followed. "I don't suppose you would consider not aiming at me?" Not even a twinge of acknowledgment. "And you are?" As if it mattered.

"It is not our custom to introduce ourselves to spies of the Enemy."

What enemy? "I am not anybody's spy," Kalista said. "Rurbag is a means to an end, nothing more..."

The broad-shouldered man, Boromir, cut her off. "And what would that end be, I wonder?"

Kalista suppressed the urge to sigh. "Do you need to hear it again?" Pointing at Hithriel, she shook her head. "Ask her. She's the one who got me into this mess in the first place."

"It is true," Hithriel said, stepping forward. _About sodding time._ "The only reason she agreed to the orc's company was to find a way out of this miserable place. We had no hope of doing so on our own."

Hithriel crossed the distance separating them, step by slow step, and took Kalista's hand. With a kind of firm gentleness, Hithriel made her let go of the dwarf's axe, took it and placed it carefully on the ground. Too tired to really care, she allowed it. "There is no need to bear his company any longer. By a fortunate chance, we have stumbled upon far worthier companions." Ernest eyes met Kalista's. "They will lead us to safety."

_Right. Or to our deaths_.

Out loud, she said, "Lead us where?" Kalista turned to face the wizard — the leader of the group by her guess. "Unless… You are familiar with the layout of this place?"

Gandalf approached them, head bobbing while he walked. "I am familiar with it. But, there are matters that need to be resolved first." His eyes met hers, and this time, Kalista found herself unable to look away. Frozen in place – _helpless._ And people asked why she hated magic!

"Speak of your intent." His voice resonated inside her mind, the echo making her temples throb. "Tell me, do I have cause to bind you with rope and spell; leaving you behind for the safety of us all?"

A word repeated in her mind; _rűk_. This time, she knew what it meant. A question. Raw power radiated from the wizard's body, making her skin tingle and crawl – a taste of what the old man was capable of. There could be no fighting her way out of this. "I don't mean any of you harm," Kalista forced the words out. At Gandalf's slight frown, she conceded, "Unless you attack me first. Then, all bets are off."

Bushy eyebrows knitted closer together. More questions followed. "Do you intend to betray us to the orcs? Are you a spy of Sauron?"

Questions she wouldn't have to lie about – some luck at last. "No, on both counts." Who the hell was Sauron? Her eyes wouldn't close; she couldn't even blink. _Get out of my head!_

Gandalf maintained eye contact for a few more intense seconds and then looked away. "I am satisfied," he said. "For now. You may journey to the surface with us."

The pressure on her mind eased, then dissipated as the morning mist. Kalista took a deep, unneeded breath. _Son of a bitch_…

"Are you sure of this, Gandalf?" The dark haired man looked unconvinced. "Can we afford to take such a gamble?"

"Whoever she is, she is not in league with the Enemy. That much I can tell. Would you have me leave her here?"

A reluctant shake of the head followed the long silence.

"It is settled then," said Gandalf.

Kalista heard Hithriel release a long breath and turned to see the girl smile at the wizard. "_Le hannon, Mithrandir_," she said, bowing slightly.

The blond elf lowered his bow – _about time_ – Kalista's eyes glanced further, and the dark haired man sheathed his sword without another word. Boromir voiced his concerns. "I do not like this, Gandalf. And I do not trust this woman." He paused and threw back his shoulders. "But I have faith you will not lead us astray." The torch-light glinted off his shield. "Very well, she will travel with us."

Silent, the dwarf crossed the distance that separated them – Kalista balanced on the balls of her feet – and retrieved his axe. When he secured it, Kalista saw he carried two smaller axes in leather loops on his belt; these sat at his left-hand side, making it easy to draw the weapons quickly when needed. _Smart_. _Efficient_. Throwing axes had their uses - they would have served well when faced with an opponent armed with a bow, or in close combat, when short stack couldn't swing his main axe.

_Be careful of him_.

The dwarf fingered the sharp edge and cast a hateful glance her way. "I will be watching you," he rumbled. "Pray that I find something to my liking." Gimli turned and walked away.

"Where were you taking them?" Kalista heard the wizard ask the orc.

"To the Eastern Gate." Rurbag covered away from the old man.

"And from this corridor; what path would you have them take?"

The orc slowly pointed at the gateway leading downwards and Gandalf nodded, seeming uncertain. "That is the path I would take also."

Quiet, the dwarf stepped forward. "Gandalf." A warning. "We have no need of the orc." The heavy axe pointed forward - Gimli gripped the hilt with both hands.

_Not again. _

Kalista spoke up, "His friends patrol the mines." That drew the wizard's attention. "We'd want to avoid them." Short stack looked about ready to shorten her by a head. "And the rat knows where they are." The words lingered.

"Gandalf..." The gruff tone spoke volumes. The dwarf took the old man aside; the two soon became engaged in an animated conversation. Kalista had little doubt what it was about. Craving revenge – she could relate to that. The dwarf was welcome to his… as soon as Rurbag's usefulness wears out.

The dark haired man leaned against the wall on her right. "Do not think us fools," he said, watching her. "You will have but this one chance." His hand lingered on his belt. "No more." The other rose up to rub the side of his neck. Would he ask her about that?

When gray eyes found hers, Kalista found it difficult to look away – strength without malice. She'd forgotten that such a thing existed. Sure as hell hadn't seen it in the sanctimonious prigs she'd had to put up with for the past two years. _Protectors of mankind, my lily white ass_. Their protection had a price-tag attached to it, at least where she'd been concerned. They'd never forgotten what she had been. What she still was. But they'd found a use for it.

"One chance is all I need," Kalista finally said.

He pushed away from the wall and stepped towards her. "But what will you use it for?"

Two throwing knives were still sheathed in her arm-sheets, securely fastened. "That depends entirely on you people, doesn't it?"

His hands lowered to rest against his sides before the man nodded, once. Subject dropped – but the topic was far from closed. The old man came back, Gimli in tow, the dwarf's mouth set in a thin, angry line. He muttered something in his beard, curses by Kalista's guess, and sat on a boulder, eyes trained on the orc. _Soon_, they said, _soon, I will have your head_.

As long as _soon _didn't turn into _now_, Kalista could live with that.

Gandalf faced the orc. "You will show us how to avoid the patrols."

A murmur of voices drifted in from the back of the room – four… _children_? It couldn't be. Rurbag said nothing, but nodded in turn, subdued for the moment. It wouldn't last long; the orc had a tendency to run his mouth.

The old man continued, "I will know if you try and deceive us."

Boromir looked about ready to say something, then shook his head. the rest did not voice their objections. That was done, then. A backup plan, in case this bargain backfired. Kalista crouched to pick up the backpack, and slung it over her shoulder. The rest of the vials were there – she'd need them. But they wouldn't last indefinitely.

"Ahem!" Her head snapped back; a remarkably short man stood before her. A man, not a child, as she'd thought before. He inquired with barely concealed excitement, "Are there hobbits where you come from?"

Kalista frowned. "Hobbits?" _Why do I bother?_

He smiled at her, unperturbed, and pointed at himself and his three other – _short _– companions in answer. "We are hobbits, or as some call us, Halflings." An expectant pause followed. "From the Shire."

Did he think the words would hold some meaning for her? "And?" Kalista was in no mood for making small-talk.

The... hobbit looked decidedly disappointed and moved back, closer to his companions, his eyes still on her. _Unafraid. Interesting_. Now that she had the opportunity to examine them without a sword at her throat, Kalista wondered how she made the mistake of taking them for children, even in that split second glance. Exceptionally short, granted, even more so then short stack, not even four feet in height, but unmistakably adults. Their body build leaned towards stoutness, yet the hobbits were remarkably well proportioned. Children or adults, it didn't matter – Kalista dismissed them as a possible threat.

When she glanced further down, Kalista arched an eyebrow in surprise. _Their feet _-- bare and covered in curly hair. How the soles hadn't been reduced to bloody scraps of skin while they climbed amongst the sharp rocks that filled most of the mines was a mystery. Obviously, the little... the hobbits were more resilient than they appeared.

The wizard's voice shook Kalista from her musings... _Musings _-- exhaustion masquerading as idle thought.

"Strider," A shout meant for the dark haired man. "We should keep moving. There is no telling what creatures could have overheard all this commotion." Gandalf gave her a pointed look she chose to ignore. "Our meeting in the dark did not take place in a quiet fashion. Indeed, I would be surprised if none took notice of it."

With an uncomfortable shrug, Kalista fell in stride with him, keeping a discreet distance. The rest of them followed, Hithriel close to the other elf, a hand on his arm. The man the wizard called Strider took point, surveying the darkness that lay in their path, the hobbits several paces behind him, protected by the dwarf's axe. Boromir guarded the orc, keeping him on a short leash and every once in a while cast distrusting glances her way.

_Fine by me_. Kalista planned keeping a wary eye on him as well.

_Only fools__ can afford to trust… fools and the dead. _

---

---

Kalista leaned back, against the wall.

"Where did you say the pass on the right would lead us to?" the old man asked.

Rurbag struggled against his bonds again, a habit he had acquired. Not that the effort would do him much good – there could be no wiggling or breaking out of the knots she'd tied. But it figured that the rat would grow to like the pain. "To the Eastern Gates, wizard. Where else?"

Gandalf glanced down, at the orc. "More detail would be welcome."

He looked at her, next. Magic, again! Kalista's skin tingled and crawled. _Tell me_… the eyes said. Tell him what? More tests? If she had known anything about the layouts of the mines, or the orcs that inhabited them, it would have all blurted out of her. _Stop_. The pressure on her mind continued, slow and steady. _Don't… Stop_. He pressed her, yes... but it wasn't her answer that he wanted. The old man glanced down again.

The orc slumped down under the wizard's gaze, his back bending beneath an unknown weight, the mocking light in his eyes going out. "We'll get to the upper mines…" a pained grunt, "…after fifteen miles or so, I reckon. After that, it's a day's walk to the Gates." He nearly crawled on all fours before the old man, who nodded and turned away.

Kalista felt the mist clear from her mind as soon as she found herself facing the wizard's back, the hazy compulsion to do anything, all, that he would want of her disappeared. A growl rose in the back of her throat, fingers twisted into claws. How many times would the bastard do that?

"And what of these other corridors?" Boromir questioned, not satisfied. "Where do they lead?"

Rurbag shook his head, emitting a low sound. Inch by inch, he straightened. "To a bunch of Uruks just waitin' to make maggot holes in your belly. Go an' look," the orc spat.

_Wonderful_.

Strider placed a calming hand on the other man's arm. "Peace, Boromir," he said, "do not let the creature bait you." At length, the man nodded, but not before sending a scathing look in Rurbag's direction.

"What are their numbers and positions?" Strider asked.

Eyes narrowing, Rurbag busied himself with his bonds. "To the left, you'd be comin' to a camp after 10 miles or so. I ain't sure of the number of Uruks there but could be close to fifty. Depends on the day. The middle one just leads to a huge gapin' hole in the ground." A thin smile, "You can all go there an' take a flyin' leap for all I care."

Kalista saw Gandalf nod with some satisfaction. "He is telling the truth as he knows it. Although, his manner could do with some improvement." The wizard sighed and sat down abruptly. "I am too weary to decide," he said, shaking his head. "And I expect that you are all as weary as I am, or wearier. We had better halt here for what is left of the night."

Kalista's knees just about buckled at the wizard's announcement. After staying awake for fifty four hours straight, she was near ready to collapse on the first available surface. And those hours had been far from uneventful.

Weariness seeped into her bones. But if she fell asleep -- the others scrambled about the open hallway -- she would be defenseless. And she trusted this lot just about as far as she could throw them.

Her hand sneaked to the gun strapped to her thigh, giving it a reassuring pat. They didn't think to take that away, presumably because they didn't know what it was. Hithriel knew, but didn't volunteer any information. Two throwing knives rested within her arm-sheets, securely fastened; they didn't take those either. Small mercies. She'd hate being unarmed in a place such as this.

As she walked past Rurbag, he spoke up. "You likin' your new friends man-brat?" The rat grinned, showing his rotting teeth. "Cause I get the feelin' they don't like you much." With a quick movement, Kalista grabbed the back of his head and introduced her knee to his face. The tension left her muscles, suddenly.

_I needed that. _

Boromir, who still guarded the orc, stiffened with surprise, but didn't comment otherwise.

Determined not to succumb to the lure of dreams, Kalista lowered herself to the ground, her legs stretched out before her. Something light fell over her lap. A blanket – her fingers trailed over the rough material. She inclined her head in Strider's direction in acknowledgement; he returned the gesture with some wariness.

Most of the blanked ended up piled beneath her, to provide some protection from the hard surface. The gun strapped to her thigh was within easy reach, she made sure of that. Covered by the blanket, Kalista moved one of the knives to the waistband of her pants, on her lower back. That done, she relaxed, somewhat. Then fragments of conversation drifted in within her earshot – Hithriel and that elf.

"Do not fear," he said. "_Estelio nin_."

Before they could say more, Strider joined the two. "Is everything well?" the elf asked, moving to make room.

Smiling, the man sat beside them and made himself comfortable. "As well as can be expected," he answered. "Pippin took first watch at the entrance and I fear for our safety if another urge overtakes him," Strider shook his head; dark strands of hair whirled through the air. "Valar protect us from over inquisitive hobbits."

Both of the elves glanced in the hobbit's direction. Pippin, as they called him, sat hunched by the door, wrapped in a blanket. He could be heard berating himself quietly from time to time.

With a small smile still playing on his lips, Strider said, "You are proficient in the Common tongue. I thought it rare among the elves of Lorien," he questioned, turning slightly to face Hithriel.

"It is true; not many of the Galadhrim choose to learn the tongue of men," Hithriel said. "I was thought something of an oddity when I expressed my desire to learn Westron, but my father soon found someone to tutor me. I found it a joy to learn." A faint flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks.

Kalista couldn't help but snort lightly at the sight, and Hithriel's head snapped up; she had heard the sound.

Their eyes met, and Hithriel frowned. "Excuse me a moment. Legolas. Strider." She climbed to her feet with intrinsic grace and made her way to where Kalista rested - _leave me alone _- sliding to the ground beside her.

"Why do you not sleep?" Hithriel asked. "I know you are weary."

Kalista glanced at her with half lidded eyes. "I have this irrational desire to live past tomorrow."

The elf gave a light laugh and placed a gentle hand on her still bloodied cheek. Kalista flinched away. Did the girl think she was kidding?

A slow shake of the head followed, and Hithriel rose taking a step back. "Do not fear, friend," she said. "We are safe with them. Sleep now." Her voice -- so soothing, with an odd edge to it.

Kalista found it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open; a tired yawn escaped her. Eyes drifted shut.

The last thing she remembered before sinking into the darkness of sleep was Hithriel's voice.

"_Losto mae_."

And the world faded away.

---

* * *

-- 

Orcish:

_Rűk – demon _

_Shara – human _

--

Sindarin:

_Le hannon – I thank you _

_Estelio nin – trust in me _

_Losto mae – sleep well _

* * *

_--_

_Author's note:_

_Reviews make a writer's day -- and indicate that someone is actually reading this, which I'm starting to doubt. _


	8. The Temple

_---_

_The Temple_

* * *

---

Gold and red. The silk flowed like water under her fingertips as she pushed the heavy curtain aside, and stepped over the threshold. One foot touched the painted-on stone, polished and smooth as glass, then the other. Maira's eyes followed the Patterns of the thirteen glyphs, a dozen steps away, carved into the center, one after the other – a path to the heart of the Council.

_No_ – the heart of the Temple, now. Empty halls, this early in the night, but the walls themselves hummed with restless energy.

With expectation. _Joyous, thrice-damned expectation_.

And she could do nothing to stop it – not for lack of trying.

The silk rustled again, and Maira glanced back. "Acolyte," she greeted, inclining her head; the forced gesture closer to a bow then a simple nod. _Traitor_, she wanted to shout. "You called me here?" _Bastard_. Teeth bit down on her lower lip to keep the words from bursting out – a habit of the past two years.

Gold and red silk – loose pants and a sleeveless tunic, held by a wide belt of intertwined metal rings. Maira had never seen one of them wearing anything else inside the Temple. Why call them the Robes, then? They made a mockery of the priests of old, her ancestors – this hypocrite in front of her, Hurst, most of all. Her hands would have curled into fists at the thought, if she had allowed them.

The silk bunched and wrinkled as he sat on the bench next to the wall. A finger beckoned her over. She bit down – a flash of pain – and her tongue darted out, over her lip, to lick off the blood before the wound closed. She allowed this calculated lapse in her guard – he liked seeing her on edge. She'd give him that – for a price.

_Fathers of my father, grant me wisdom and patience_.

Maira could _smell_ him, now. The stench of fresh sweat clung to him, as if he'd run all the way to the Temple. Impatience – a trait of children and short-lived humans.

"It is decided," he said. The words made her stomach drop. "The Council has agreed."

"The Council?" Momentum carried her forward. "No decision can be valid without a quorum." Calm, composed words, while panic ate away at her, inside. She came to a halt two steps away from the bench. "The heads of four Houses knew nothing about this vote." Maira had been with them, an hour ago, before Hurst's summon. Her voice rose. "_I _knew nothing about this vote."

Hurst smiled, lips stretching over perfect teeth she wanted to smash in, and shifted on the bench.

Maira's skin heated and flushed with borrowed blood. It couldn't be. All her hard work – months of negotiation, gifts, bribes and threats – flushed down the drain in a moment. Those four Houses would have voted '_no'_.

Hurst gave her a solemn – _gloating, the son of a bitch is gloating_ – nod, hands folded neatly in his lap. "Five of my brothers cast the vote in their place," a pause, "in your place."

_B__rothers_… Low-born Robes dared to speak for the Clans! For her Clan. The Council must had gone mad to allow that to happen. Maira started to speak, blood boiling, but a tanned hand rose, a ring on his finger glinting marred silver in the reddish light. "We followed the letter of the law."

_And spat on the spirit_. Maira's hands yearned to wrap around his throat. "Council members _choose _their representatives. I never gave my voting rights to anyone." And neither did the other four – she was sure of that.

"The law grants us the right of discretion in… troubled times," he said.

"The _law_?" She spat the word out. Hurst had no right to speak of vampire law. "Not the law of the Clan Fathers." They stood inches away, now. "Who are turning in their graves as we speak." _Screaming out their rage in the Underworld._ The Robes had rewritten – fouled– the scriptures of the Thirteen Houses, soon after the Awakening. One such change had cost Maira her chair on the Council – for a while.

Hurst's eyes locked on hers – his hand reached out to touch the inside of her wrist, body leaning towards her. The cool metal of the ring brushed against her skin. "Sanaya hadn't thought so."

Before she could stop herself, Maira flinched away. This man knew her too well. "You pushed the Council to put her in my place because of it." Maira hadn't forgotten – never would.

A shake of the head. "Convinced would be a better word. If anyone forced the Council's hand, it was you." When she sided with Galliano. "Besides, your mother didn't last long."

Maira's throat dried. _Bastard_. She'd never thought the day would come when she'd be thankful for her father's death, but at least he'd not lived to see what became of his wife. To see Sanaya turn away from the old ways, trample the memory of their forefathers into the ground, and embrace the Robes' cursed religion. Pledge her soul to the would-be god that killed her husband.

Two years ago, Maira had stood in this very place, and watched her father burn. Along with twelve others – the stench still lingered in her nostrils.

_One god, one master, one faith…_ the Robes had been shoving that line down her throat since then. Maira pursed her lips in disgust. She honored the gods below and her ancestors – no one and nothing else.

_Let alone the war-monger that resides inside this Temple_. The war-monger that made Maira snap the neck of the woman that gave birth to her and scatter her ashes to the four winds. Her father's Clan couldn't have a traitor leading it. Maira spat on the ground, a curse on her lips.

_You are no god_. She wanted to scream it to the high heavens.

The walls hummed. The light dimmed. Hurst rose to his feet, hands gripping her shoulders. Warm hands – the contrast had excited her, once – the sudden heat of the ring pulsed against her skin. "Quiet," he hissed out through clenched teeth. "He is awake today."

The humming made Maira's skin tingle, her head throb – one hand rose to rub circles at her temple.

Fear lit Hurst's eyes. "Don't say a word." A brand of twisted concern filled his voice. Before, she'd believed it to be real – even if she didn't understand it.

Maira didn't know whether to laugh or retch, but the latter wasn't an option, so she grinned through the pain, wide and feral, lips stretching over teeth. She had felt like this once before, in the moments after what remained of her father had crumbled to dust. _We all did_, they told her afterwards. Twelve sons and a daughter – thirteen Houses fatherless in less than an hour. The Clans forced down to their knees… and she'd had to side with the one that caused it.

_Blood ru__ns thicker than water_.

The pounding in her head sounded like laughter. A tense moment – Maira pushed back her rising panic – and the silence returned. The light colored the darkened patterns beneath her feet. Her head cleared – blessed relief, before the worry returned, insistent. _The vote_.

Hurst bowed his head. Pale lips whispered prayers, quiet and reverent, just loud enough to be heard. Lids drifted shut over brown eyes that had stared at her, a moment ago, blinked and refocused. All an act. _Hypocrite_. He had no true faith in him, which made him worse than her mother had been. Maira swallowed – she had no mother.

The vote. The Council had agreed on declaring war on the Thirteenth House. _Fathers of my father_…

She cleared her throat. "Do we need to be here?"

It took a moment before Hurst shook his head, stepping back. "Follow me," he said.

Silk rustled as they stepped over the threshold, into an empty corridor. Relief, to be away from the humming walls, away from all that restless power. Impatience was a trait of would-be godlings as well, it seemed.

Maira lengthened her stride to catch up with Hurst. A straight upward path, lit by electric lights, welcome after the unnatural light of the Temple, led them to a freight elevator. Hurst still muttered his prayers when they climbed in, and continued on the way up, even after a warm arm reached out to sneak around her waist. _Hypocrite_. She allowed it and whispered the names of her ancestors in her mind, lined them all up on a continuous string. Wrapped herself up in their presence while he fouled the air with his incantations.

A blaze of stars in the sky above greeted her when they reached the surface, but for the first time in years, the sight could not comfort her. Robes, dozens of them, crawled on the ramp leading down, all eager to serve their no longer slumbering master. Bile rose in her throat. Eager to make war on her kin.

A familiar face – _Gavin, thank the gods below_ – came into her line of sight when they moved to let two men enter the elevator. Maira waited until crowd cleared, until he could see her hands, and signed out the agreed command. He would carry her letter, prewritten, to the right hands. To the last of her blood. The thought gave her new strength.

Hurst's arm remained snug around her waist as they walked uphill to a new, low building, fingers splayed over her clenched stomach. She forced it to relax, drowned out the tinge of heat she still felt when he touched her, and fell back into her memories.

_The__ star on the far left_, her father had said with a chuckle, centuries ago. When she had been young. _Your mother wanted to name you after it_. Maira remembered how she had straightened on that high balcony, surprised, had torn her eyes away from the bustling streets of Venice, away from the heat of the Carnival, to meet her father's smile. _Venus? _she had asked. _She wanted to name me Venus_? A nod had answered her, _Now she wants to name your brother Ares_, followed by a shake of the head. _I have three months yet to dissuade her_. Her face had darkened after the mention of a brother – her father had noticed and laced his fingers with hers. _Enough of these troubled thoughts, Maira._ He had gripped her hand and tilted her face up. _You are the first of your name, and my heir. Nothing will change that_.

Oh, but everything could have changed. In a year's time, whispers of a male hair had become too loud to ignore, and she would have been left with nothing. But Missal Cattaro had remained true to his word. A pretend accident later, and she had no brother either – as far as the world knew. Only Gitano Dragonetti had known better – and kept the blood of her blood close; as a favor to her father. Father's show of faith hadn't surprised her; Houses Cattaro and Dragonetti had been fast allies for centuries.

The door creaked and shook her out of her reverie – Hurst lead her into his apartment, sparsely furnished for the moment, but spacious, with potential for luxury. The lights stayed off. Maira remembered a time, not so long ago, when he'd had nothing to his name. When his life depended on her whim. All this, power and wealth, just because he was the first to bend the knee. Good sense, he had called it. Maira called it betrayal. Hurst had found it, that creature, newly awoken, still weak – and the spineless sack of warg dung had helped breathe life into it.

Or so Maira had heard. She'd been too busy, in the aftermath, to ask.

Hurst's fingers wrapped around the thick braid that fell half-way down his back, and tugged it over his shoulder. A boyish gesture – fitting for one so young. It stung to be brought low by a child, barely past his twenty-eighth year. A child high on power and ambition – with deadly backing.

He started to undress – Maira expected as much. Whether he wanted to bed her or unbalance her remained to be seen. "We can talk here." An all too familiar quality seeped into his voice, into his touch, now that they were out of the Temple. The difference struck her. As if he'd shed a role forced on him. Starlight danced on naked skin, a play of shadow and light, as he leaned in, fingers gripping her hips "Ask your questions."

And she'd get her answers – for a price. If the last two years hadn't stripped her of her pride, this night would. Maira thought about breaking his arms at the elbows and dismissed the idea. The brief satisfaction it would give her wouldn't be worth the fallout.

She asked her first question, instead. "Who will order the attack?"

The smug smile he gave her answered that, at least.

Nausea settled in the pit of her stomach; Maira fought past it, refocused. His hands twitched on her hips as she leaned into him, her lips next to his ear. "How long do they have?" she whispered. How long did her brother have? Hours? Days? She couldn't care less about the rest of Galliano Dragonetti's clan.

When she felt Hurst take a deep breath of her, Maira moved an inch away, so she could see his face. So he could see hers. He smiled that slow smile he had, the one that used to start a fire low in her belly. It still did – it made her hate him all the more for it.

"That depends." Hurst traced the outline of her jaw with his thumb and forefinger. Like nothing had changed between them. Like the past two years hadn't happened. "How long will you stay?" The soft words were a slap in the face.

Maira wanted to slap him back, make him remember how she could still snap him in two, with little effort. Instead, she kissed the nape of his neck. Bit his jaw in that way he liked. Quick and sharp, with her tongue darting out at the end. "For as long as it takes," she said. And she would. To buy Gavin more time to deliver her message, for a delay in the Council's sentence.

His hands... two years were little time, but she'd forgotten. She'd had him before – _hundreds of times, in dozens of different ways _– but this would be the first time he'd have _her_, on his terms. Hurst nipped her jaw, his breath hot against her cheek, but the remembered jolt of desire couldn't stop the nausea from welling up.

An Elder daughter, playing to a _human's _tune. Their roles had shifted; he had power over her, now. Maira prayed that her father couldn't see, from the Underworld, how low she'd sunk.

Hurst kissed her, once, all teeth and tongue, before going still and thoughtful. Before his hands fell from her hips, his quickened pulse still drumming in her ears. Before he took a step back. "Enough," he said, eyes never leaving hers, voice hoarse. His hands balled into fists, twitching against his sides.

Why had he stopped?

After taking one slow step back, he said, "They have a day, for all the good it will do them."

A reprieve – that easily gained? She couldn't have heard it right.

"There is nowhere on Earth Galliano can hide."

The certainty in his voice got on her nerves, even as meaning sunk in – a day. More than enough. Relief welled up inside her, side to side with resentment. "I thank you for that." Maira forced the words out, the taste of him still fresh on her tongue. Mercy proved a hard gift to swallow, from him. "And for…" The words trailed off.

Hurst shook his head. "For what?" A pause. "For not taking what hasn't been offered?" He stood before her, still naked. "That's what you do, Maira," he said. Soft words, with an edge of anger to them. "That's what you're best at."

What was he yapping about, now? He'd been willing, always. "Hurst..." Her fingers reached out to trace patterns over his collarbone, nails scraping skin. To prove a point. The corner of her mouth quirked up when his eyes drifted shut. "When you begged for more, panting…" Her fingers trailed down; she breathed out next to his ear – he shivered. "_Harder... faster_… _slow, now_…" Her body molded to his. "Every time, you meant to say _no_?"

His quickened breath brushed against her cheek. She had power over him, still – a victory of a sort. Maira started to back away – she'd made her point – but Hurst's hands ran down her sides, wormed their way under her shirt. When he kissed her again, she allowed it and moaned into his mouth. After he drew back, her fingers wound into his hair to pull him back. Treachery, everywhere she turned – even in herself.

Hurst gave her a small shake of the head. "Pleasure means little." Tired regret seeped into his voice. "When you don't have a say in it." An old wound. "Can you understand that, now?" The distance between them grew. "You never asked, Maira. Not once." Miles where'd once been inches. "You just took."

_You never complained_. Maira bit her lip, seething. "Spare me the lecture." He'd been insolent all his life – a child, sold to the Clan in payment of his father's gambling debts, twenty short years ago. A boy later, barely remembered. It was the man that had drawn her attention.

For a split second, he looked so gods damned sad it made her want to claw his eyes out. "I care for you," he said. The bitter laugh that followed struck a cord in her that the words couldn't. "Always did. God knows why."

_God_? Maira forced herself into silence and focused on that. Which god did he mean? The human god that he had clung to, for years? Whispered his prayers to the dark when he'd thought her asleep. Or this new 'god' who had brought the Clans to heel in two short days? Which god had his allegiance? He'd gotten too good at pretending to tell.

A knock on the door stopped her questions. "Acolyte!" A woman's voice, unfamiliar. On instinct, Maira's head turned in its direction.

"A moment," came the immediate answer. When she looked back, Hurst already had a robe in his hands, one arm sliding into a sleeve. An ordinary bathroom robe. His face, the way he held himself – the sudden difference struck her. Gone was the glimpse of the man she'd known. A stranger stood in his place, features schooled into a calm, reverent mask – one he'd been wearing for the past two years.

_Oh, yes_. He'd gotten good at pretending. Perhaps he'd always had been. Maira stood back, while he swung the door open.

A woman – a vampire, Maira smelled it right away – clad in a gold and red silk tunic bowed low, one hand placed over her heart. _Bowed down to a human_. Her easy subservience made Maira wish she'd smuggled that dagger past the Temple guards. On second glance, she recognized the clan mark on her – Lanai of the Copra's. The name rang a bell – she'd been one of the first to join the Robes. The traitor's gaze moved past her – _past a Council member_ – disinterested. If Maira had that dagger, it would have ended up buried in her throat for the insult.

"We did as you asked," Lanai said, pointing back. "What should we do with it?" Distaste carried in her voice.

_It_? Maira's eyes followed the woman's extended hand and found…

_Gods bel__ow_. It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. The stone glyph of the Thirteenth House, already cracked and filthy, lay on the floor before the entrance. The delicate silver lettering, intermixed with flashes of orange and red – she would recognize it anywhere. She had seen it, not twenty minutes ago, inside the Patterns of the thirteen glyphs, undisturbed for an eon. Thirteenth in the row, but first in the Pattern; closest to the heart of the old Temple. Had they left the place empty, a tell-tale hole in the marble floor, or had they set the glyph of the Robes in its place? The thought made her jaw clench.

House Dragonetti – once the first among equals. Now marked for ruin.

Hurst smiled – a real smile that reached his eyes. "Destroy it." The satisfaction in his tone made Maira's eyes narrow to slits. "Give the ashes to me when you're done."

Lanai's eyes lit up. "A pleasure." She smiled back and sized Hurst up and down, one eyebrow raised. No surprise there – the Temple god favored Hurst above all. And Lanai wouldn't be the first low-born to try and up her rank between the sheets.

Hurst's expression darkened. "Just get it done," he said, and let the door shut in the woman's face. A moment, and a murmur of voices drifted in through the door.

Maira's brow furrowed. _Interesting_. She had heard that Hurst had taken five humans, familiars he'd known, and made them high-priests – called them brothers. None among the Robes had dared to speak against it, yet. An unwelcome thought surfaced. Had those been the brothers that took the vote today? _Gods bellow_... He'd dare put humans in the High Council?

A slap in the face. And the fools just bent over and took it. The Temple god probably roared with laughter – if only he would choke on it. Maira took a step towards him, suddenly sure. "You hate us all, don't you?" _Vampires_. She hadn't seen it before now. Hadn't bothered to see it.

The expression on his face proved unreadable. "I never hated you, Maira," he said. "Even after you gave me every reason to."

That didn't answer her question. "You've made an oath, I've heard." Maira pressed on, "They say you refuse to receive the Gift until the position of the Temple is secured." The gift of life and death… The thought of him as her equal had been both appealing and disquieting, then. But now… "They admire your… _sacrifice_." He couldn't miss the sarcasm in her tone.

He met her eyes, unflinching. "My loyalty is to the Temple." Spoken with a conviction that would have fooled her just yesterday, but not now – not after tonight. Hurst had his own agenda.

"And when will the Temple's position be secured?" The knot in her stomach returned. "After Galliano's death? After you wipe out his clan?"

Confusion made his eyebrows knit closer together. "For the life of me, I can't figure out why you're so invested in that sadist's survival." His fingers scratched the back of his head, then ran through his hair. "I had you pegged as the first in line for his execution. His fumbling with Ritual did wake the Ancients."

And brought one, the worst of them, back into the world. Killed her father by proxy. Galliano could rot in the Abyss, for all she cared. Habit forced the words out. "Kalista woke them," the lie rolled off her tongue easily enough. The lie that had held back the flood for two years.

Hurst's smile made her jaw clench. "You don't believe that yourself."

Maira believed what she had to. Did what she had to, to balance on the edge of the precipice. What was one woman's life – and an unnatural half-breed's, at that – against the certainty of all out war? Peace could have been kept, the Clans made to focus on the right enemy, if only the fates had allowed her more time. If only the Temple god hadn't been bent on war from the start.

"Why go after Dragonetti? Why now?" she asked instead.

A snort sounded out. "Because it's a war that at least half of the Clans will agree on."

And a war that would spread to the other Houses, as time passed. There could be no stopping that in a world of mixed loyalties. Maira had played her part in it – five Houses now stood by Galliano, including her own. Hurst had to know what she'd been doing, allowed it to go on. How else would he have known where to find her tonight? Her stomach dropped. Had he wanted this, all along?

Hurst pulled up a chair and sprawled over it. "Galliano sets a bad example, if you need more of a reason."

A bad example… That was a given. Galliano wasn't one to bend the knee – he probably wouldn't know how to. Maira pressed on, "After Galliano's death… Will you stop there?" She had to know.

Hurst's shoulders moved in a shrug. "Who can tell?" The wind outside picked up and sneaked inside through one open window. "New threats can always arise."

_This is just the beginning_. Maira suppressed a shiver. He'd pit them all against each other if he could, she didn't doubt it. But why tell her that?

One way or the other, she'd lingered there too long. Would he let her leave? Bring word to the other Houses? A part of her hoped he would stop her, imprison her – the alternative proved too dark to contemplate.

_Only one way to find out_.

Maira turned to go, without a word, hand reaching for the door.

"Stay."

The whispered words made her hesitate a moment. Perhaps she'd misread him… But, no. Still, he asked – never commanded. Did he think that she would find a lesson in that? Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. _You never asked, Maira. Not once_. If she'd asked, would he have said yes?

No regrets. She was the first of her name and an Elder daughter – best she remembered that. _It's our way._ With a shake of the head, Maira stepped over the threshold. The door drifted shut behind her. No one stopped her from leaving the building, walking across the open yard, no one jumped her when she found her car and turned on the ignition. No one followed her, driving away.

So, Hurst wanted a war. Tears burned behind her eyelids – she blinked them away. Maira could still keep the peace. There was still hope – how could they fight an enemy they couldn't find?

Heads of four Houses awaited her return.

_There is strength in numbers_.

Maira hoped she wouldn't have to use it.

---

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Author's note:

This chapter is needed for later plot developments -- I hope that I haven't bored you with it too much. The next chapter will focus on the Fellowship in Moria, Hithriel's father in Lothlorien and Darius in modern day Earth.

Also, I would like to know how many people are following this story, so, drop a line to let me know if you liked this or not.


	9. Chapter 9

The hard way

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--

Hithriel stumbled over another rock and cursed. One of Kalista's foul words – the habit of using them formed more quickly than she'd like. If father would hear her now… What then? Hithriel almost laughed, the sound caught in her throat. He'd send her to her room without dinner? How long had it been since she'd last eaten?

And how long have they been walking through this maze of narrow corridors? It felt like days to Hithriel's tired, sore feet. When would they stop and rest? The man that took point, the one they called Strider, had said 'soon' with an encouraging smile, but that been over an hour ago. Hithriel stopped to catch her breath. A growl behind her took it away.

"Out of my way, whelp." The orc.

As soon as Rurbag had spoken, Boromir pulled on the makeshift leash around his neck, choking him. "Be silent, beast. Before I forget Gandalf does not want you dead yet."

Hithriel nodded to the man, grateful for his presence, then walked on. Having that thing so near unnerved her. But not as much as a conversation between Kalista and the orc, that took place not an hour ago, had. The woman had waited until the others were out of ear-shot and approached Rurbag so quietly no one had taken note of it.

Only Hithriel had stood close enough to overhear them.

_Kalista grabbed the orc's arm in what had to be a painful grip and grabbed him by the throat. "I have no idea what goes on in that rancid cesspit you like to call a mind, and believe me, I don't want to." The words came out in a harsh whisper. "But try and backstab me one more time and you'll find yourself wishing I snapped your scrawny neck when we first met."_

_The orc shifted away - Kalista let him. "Just keep me breathin', rűk and none will be the wiser. I ain't stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds me," a disturbing chuckle, "Not just yet, mind you."_

_"Just so long as we're clear. You mouth off again and I'll rip your tongue out."_

_"I reckon you would. No worries then, Rurbag's watching your back."_

_Hithriel thought she heard a heavy dose of sarcasm in the orc's voice._

_Kalista seemed to have heard it as well. "Watching for the best place to plunge the knife into, no doubt. As I said, keep your mouth shut and we'll get along fine."_

Hithriel swallowed the lump that formed in her throat at the memory and bit her lower lip. Guilt and uncertainty washed over her. What if Kalista betrayed them to the orcs in exchange for her own life? It was a possibility. Indeed, any vampire she'd met would not think twice about it. If this happened, the deaths of their new companions would fall on Hithriel's head.

One word… and they could be warned. They could prepare. But that one word could mean Kalista's death. Hithriel clenched her hands into fists, the nails biting into her palms. Would the woman betray the trust Hithriel had placed in her? Hithriel knew not - but doubt alone could not erase her debt.

"We stop, now," Strider said, standing next to a fork in the road ahead, a clearing to his right. Hithriel smiled.

--

* * *

--

"Do you not trust them?" Hithriel leaned back, against the wall, reaching the end of her patience. They needed to talk this through, now that they were alone.

A smile lifted the corner of Kalista's mouth. An ugly smile, with the crusted blood on her right cheek cracking. Why wouldn't she wash that away? The wound had to have closed by now, if she was like any of the vampires Hithriel had known. "About as far as I can throw them."

Hithriel extended her hand, reaching. Why would she not listen to reason?

Kalista shook her head, leaning back and looking at her like she was an addled child. "So, I should put my life in their hands, not blinking an eye, because one of them happens to belong to the same race as you? That is what you're saying, right?" An unreadable half smile played on her lips. Mocking. It made Hithriel want to slap it away.

"These are men of valor and good of heart," Hithriel said. "Can you not see that?" A frown spread across Hithriel's face. Could she explain this to someone like her? "No elf would harm another being without due cause. You have nothing to fear from them." If they had something to fear from Kalista – that was another matter entirely.

Gesturing at the orc, Kalista raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Do no harm, right? What do you call Rurbag, then? He's sentient enough." She snorted, one hand rubbing her neck. "By a very wide definition. Not much in the brains department and generally unpleasant, but still…a sentient son of a btch." She leaned forward and caught a wayward strand of Hithriel's hair, lightly pulling on it. "Don't try and tell me these men won't happily off him the very second his usefulness wears out." She let go. "What do you think they'll do to me?"

_She does not understand_. What to say to that? "It is not so," Hithriel said. "But I know not how to make you believe it." This woman looked for the worst in others, at all times. Trust is for the weak, she'd said. "They have no reason to turn on you." No reason that they know of. "Your nature is unknown to them." Because of her. One word would be all it took. But the crushing weight of her debt kept Hithriel still and silent. She shook her head – a sharp gesture of denial. Kalista would not betray them.

A brief flash of worry illuminated Kalista's eyes, but it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "The wizard knows," a pause, "or suspects something." Those hard eyes narrowed. "Why he doesn't call me on it, I don't know. All bull aside, it makes me nervous. I don't like unanswered questions. If I'd have to guess, I'd say it's a non-issue for now, for him. Until we get to the surface. After that…your guess is as good as mine."

The fear that twisted in her stomach loosened its grip, just a little. Mithrandir knew… _good_. Hithriel glanced to her left, to a corner away from the fire. "And the orc?"

Kalista's head lolled to the left. "I can keep him in line. He knows it's in his best interest to keep his mouth shut." Her right hand clutched at the coarse wool of the blanket covering her. "For now."

"How did he…"

"Guess what I am?" Kalista asked. At Hithriel's reluctant nod, she rolled her shoulders, her eyes drifting shut. "Like will know like, I suppose."

Hithriel started a sentence, "You are nothing like…" and stopped half-way. The lie would not pass her lips. Was it a lie? Hithriel shook her head, determined. "I know I owe you my life. You have rescued me at great risk to yourself. Rurbag and his ilk would never consider doing such a thing." That, she believed readily.

Kalista snorted in answer. "I didn't set out to rescue you, you silly bint. It just turned out that way. Blind luck." Her expression changed. "For you, anyway." Changing the subject, Kalista traced her finger over a rusted metal band on the floor. "There's something else I've been meaning to ask you."

Silly bint? Exasperated, Hithriel leaned in, closer, curious despite herself. "What is it?"

Kalista's eyes dropped slightly in answer, and Hithriel almost felt the heat of her gaze on the now smooth skin of her throat; where contusions and bruises used to be. Where that collar used to be. She paled, her throat closing – I own you, he'd said – her hand flew to cover the exposed skin.

"That thing… the collar Darius was so eager to get a hold of…" Kalista's voice trailed off, when both Legolas and Strider made their way towards them.

"Is everything well?" Legolas threw a somewhat suspicious glance Kalista's way.

Hithriel nodded in answer, her hands griping the blanket on her lap. _Say no more_, she prayed. The prospect of her shame revealed for all to see... it didn't bare thinking about. Thankfully, Kalista fell silent. Hithriel hoped that the fortunate affliction would last.

Strider addressed them both, "We have brought you some food. Eat, for the road before us is long still, and you will need all your strength in the days to come. You both must be starving by now." He offered them small, but rather pleasant smelling rations. Hithriel gratefully accepted, only to see Kalista shaking her head, then resumed staring into the dark without a word. However, the man did not let her seeming indifference to him deter him from the task at hand.

"It would be folly to refuse this," he said, a harsh tone in the voice. "You would not let me examine your injuries and I respected your wish, against my better judgment. I must insist that you now eat some of this at least. I will not carry you to the surface if your strength fails you and you fall flat on your face."

Hithriel knew why Kalista did not take the offered food, but remained silent. After all, what could she say to them? To her surprise, Kalista shook her head once more, glanced at the man before her and took the plate from his hands. She placed it on her lap without a word, popped a small piece of dried meat into her mouth and chewed. With a court nod, Strider left to rejoin the wizard and the others. Legolas, however, stayed and sat down beside them.

"Gandalf said it would be no more then a day until we reach the East-gate," he said. "We are close to the surface now and when we wake tomorrow, perhaps we will see some morning light dispel the darkness of this place. It would be a welcome sight."

Hithriel nodded and smiled, grateful for the information and for the distraction his company provided. The direction of her previous conversation with Kalista promised to lead towards far too many painful memories for her liking. _Do not think about it_. She was home, now. And Galliano was a world away.

Legolas fell silent after the brief exchange, but showed no intention of leaving their presence just yet. Moments passed in silence, when a loud sigh reached her ears. Turning back, Hithriel muffled a sigh of her own. Kalista toyed with the material of her torn shirt, near where Hithriel knew her hidden knife to be. Inpatient eyes found hers. _Get rid of him_, they said. Swallowing, Hithriel shook her head – no. Some more minutes passed, with Legolas seemingly unaware, or perhaps uncaring of the growing tension in the air.

Finally, Kalista spoke up. "Don't you have better things to do besides sitting here doing absolutely nothing?" Legolas lifted his head to look at her. "Yes, I'm talking to you." She looked… agitated. Like an animal left unfed for too long.

Legolas turned his head in her direction, one eyebrow raised. "And what would you have me do?"

Kalista's fingers wrapped around the rusted – heavy looking – metal band.

_She wouldn't_… Did she think to throw it at him?

"I don't know," she said, a muscle on her unmarred cheek twitching. "Walk around, sleep… make a brand new batch of arrows from scratch. Anything that would make you not being here happen."

From the expression on his face, Kalista's abrupt manner honestly took Legolas by surprise. "Indeed? What has brought this on?"

A brief answer followed, "I need to talk to Hithriel in private."

Legolas turned towards Hithriel. "Do you wish me to leave?" Intense eyes bored into hers. A question formed in them.

She shook her head and looked down, unwilling to look Kalista in the eye. A moment of silence passed. Then Kalista spoke up. "Have it your way." Clipped, angry tones, with an expression to match it. "I need to talk about that collar. Was there a purpose to it, or was it just one of Galliano's head games?" Such a casual tone of voice – as if she was inquiring about the weather.

A frown formed on Legolas' face. "Collar?"

Hithriel felt her mouth go dry. Her heart pounded in her chest and suddenly, she found it difficult to draw breath. "Stop," she whispered. "Just stop." When she realized she had reverted to Sindarin in her distress, she added quickly, "Please, say no more. I beg of you." The prickle of unshed tears burned behind her eyelids.

Kalista bit the inside of her cheek and glanced away. "I don't have time to play nurse-maid."

"Should I leave?" Legolas asked gently. Hithriel turned to look at him, but gave no answer, if for no other reason, than because she could not form the words.

Reluctantly, Legolas placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Hithriel flinched away from his touch. Withdrawing his hand swiftly, Legolas inclined his head, then retreated in silence. Hithriel drew a shuddering breath and focused on keeping the tears at bay.

After a prolonged uncomfortable silence Kalista spoke up. "I guess that was out of line."

Arm raised in a warning gesture, Hithriel cut the apology short. "Not another word." Hithriel wiped away angry tears. "Have you no compassion or common sense? Would you have others know if you had endured something as degrading? Would you wish it known?" Her voice rose to a shout. Some of the others stirred in their sacks, but did not wake. Hithriel reminded herself to whisper. No one could overhear this.

Kalista glanced around and whispered, "I messed up. Believe me, I know. I shouldn't have said that. But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to talk about this."

"He chained and branded me like an animal," Hithriel interrupted. "What is there to talk about?" Her tired feet protested as she rose. "I have no desire to recount the experience. Not to you, nor to anyone." She had to leave. "There is nothing more to be said."

A cold hand grabbed her wrist in an iron grip and pulled her back down. "This is important. I understand you're pissed right now and, granted, you have every right to be. Scream at me all you want later, but now _listen_," Kalista hissed, her face set. "I don't know when I'll get the chance to talk to you again, without anyone overhearing us. You owe me that much."

Could she break the hold the woman had on her? A desperate half-smile lifted the corner of Hithriel's lips. Not without waking half of the camp first. Stomping down on her anger, Hithriel sighed and nodded. The debt between them could not be ignored. "Go on." What was one more dent in her pride?

A tense smile came with the question. "When did Galliano find you? Right after the transition or later?"

Hithriel thought about it. "Almost right after. To my misfortune. I do not think even two hours had passed before I stumbled upon them." Why did it matter? "Why do you ask?"

"I'm testing a theory. That collar, did they put it on you right away?"

Hithriel tensed, startled. "Yes. How did you know?"

Kalista nodded, brow furrowed. "I've been thinking about this since we got here. I've heard of portals before, inter-dimensional ones. The way I figured it, they're localized, set to a certain place and they stick to their own timetables. They just don't pop into existence on a whim. When they do, it's rare, and a higher power usually has its greedy fingers in it. Unlikely in this case."

"A higher power?" Hithriel asked. Like the Valar?

A shake of the head answered her. "Not important. The thing is; I don't think we just happened upon a portal opening in a random burst. Even I am not that unlucky. This will sound crazy, but I think a portal sprang into existence around you. At least, that's my current theory." A bitter chuckle escaped her. "I got sucked in as collateral damage."

Hithriel frowned. "Why would portals be opening around me?"

In a nervous gesture, Kalista drummed her fingers on her thigh and frowned. "You're asking me? How the hell should I know? This is all guesswork." Chewing on her lower lip, she shifted to the right. "The collar had a timer on it. I can't be sure, but I think we got transported here the very moment the timer expired. I have no idea how, or why for that matter, but there's a chance that collar was Galliano's means to keep you anchored to my world."

"I do not understand this. For what purpose?" Kalista made a vague gesture, marking her own confusion on the matter, Hithriel guessed. "And what does this matter now? I am back where I belong."

Kalista's eyes locked on hers with a burning intensity. "Great for you. But these things matter to me, since I'm the one stuck in a strange dimension with people who, I suspect, would like nothing more then to be rid of me. In a six feet under kind of way. Care to remember how I got in this mess in the first place?"

A flush of shame colored Hithriel's cheeks. "Know that I will help you in any way that I can." A shake of the head. "But how will talking of this help you?"

An exasperated sigh followed. "Indulge me then. Do you remember Galliano saying anything about how you got there? Anything at all, even if you didn't understand what he meant by it?"

"I have told you. There is nothing…" A vague memory surfaced. Perhaps it was nothing, but no harm could come from the telling of it. "Wait. Perhaps…"

"Out with it."

"I cannot be sure." Not a pleasant memory. "I was nearly unconscious at the time, but Galliano mentioned a name. Harrison. '_Harrison's tinkering with magic proved its worth this time. He gets his specimens, and I get to have_…" Hesitating, Hithriel swallowed before speaking up again. "…_my fun. Win-win_.' This happened soon after I learned the basics of your language. I found it strange, because none of the men who captured me were called by such a name."

Kalista's frown deepened. "Harrison… Why does that sound familiar?" A moment passed before her eyes widened. "Robert Harrison. His face was plastered over all the newspapers after his disappearance two years ago. A scientist that liked to dabble in the darker arts. From what I've heard, anyway. " She paused to scratch the back of her neck. "So, he works for Dragonetti now? Service gained at knife point, most likely."

"What is the significance of this?" Hithriel asked. "Who is this man to you?"

Kalista made a vague dismissive notion. "I don't know him personally, but I know of him. A rising star of a sort within his field of research. His disappearance caused a stir in the scientific community back in the day…" A frown. "What is Galliano up to?"

Hithriel nodded absently, even though she understood nearly nothing of what had been said thus far. "And of what use will this information be to you? Will it help you get back to your world?"

"Every bit of information counts. If I can figure out how I got here, then maybe I can recreate it somehow. Later, when there are no orcs to worry about." Kalista gave her a pointed look. "And no elves for that matter."

What to say to that? Kalista wrapped the blanket around her shoulders tighter. "The more I think about it, the more likely it seems Galliano somehow dragged you to Earth… to my Earth, in the first place."

Hithriel shivered, against her will. "Why?" she asked, her voice almost breaking. "Why would he do that? And how?" And could he do it again?

"I don't know yet. Give me some time to mull this over. Anything else you happen to remember would be welcome." Kalista looked at her, puzzled. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I'm curious. How did you escape in the first place?"

Finding that all of her strength had drained away in the course of their strange conversation, Hithriel merely shook her head. "Another time. I am too tired now. Let me rest."

After a moment, Kalista nodded. "All right. Get some sleep. You look like you need it." She got up and stretched her limbs. "I'm going to try and strike up a conversation with the wizard. If he doesn't zap me on the spot, I'll see if he knows something about portals in the area. Good night."

After Kalista's footsteps could no longer be heard, Hithriel closed her eyes, praying no nightmares would haunt her rest this night.

She knew it to be a foolish hope. She drifted to sleep praying to the Valar regardless.

Raised voices and a clash of weapons woke her.

--

* * *

--

Fingers smoothed the fine parchment, traced a careful path around the intricate, old-fashioned lettering. Ink and pen, dried and sealed. A strange sight, now a day, but Darius had grown to expect it – the new head of the Cattaro Clan used little else. Old habits died hard, or so she had told him. Darius leaned back into his chair, and allowed the letter to drift down to the table.

_The Robes are on the move. Time is short…leave, now. _

The words imprinted themselves into his memory, like a fire-brand. Darius pinched the bridge of his nose – then looked up as heavy feet shuffled on the floor.

"You are dismissed," he said. Familiar lines, uttered many times before, in this very room. It was hard to believe that this might be the last.

The man – Darius had never asked his name – gave a brisk nod and started to turn on his heel. Darius stopped him with a gesture. A closed briefcase lay on a low table, next to the door. "With our thanks." House Dragonetti always settled its debts.

A shake of the head, "My Mistress sent me here." One foot stepped over the threshold. "She needs no payment."

_And that's what worries me_. After the door clicked shut, Darius allowed his eyelids to flutter closed. He'd known this would happen, had known it for a long time – why did it feel then, as if the world had crumbled around him?

In a sense, it had.

His fingers reached for the letter, then traced the seal. Ordinary wax, without any House insignia – Darius needed no signature. Maira Cattaro... their inexplicable ally. Without her influence they'd be dead ten times over by now. Him and Galliano.

The first time – on the night of the Awakening. If Maira hadn't stepped in, the sons of the dead would have fed them to the Ferals, with good reason. A part of him had wanted it – an end to it all – after seeing Gitano burn, if only to silence the screaming in his head. If only to stop seeing Kal, curled on the floor, choking in tears… A bitter laugh escaped him. Single-handedly, he'd ruined a friend, killed the only father he had known, and helped a pissant divinity enslave the Clans. All in one night – all for nothing.

_Sodding hell. _Where was that bottle? He'd left it here somewhere.

Dredging up the past just made him want to get good and drunk. How long would be beat himself up about this?

_How does the rest of eternity sound?_

Darius shook his head and refilled the glass. Kal had been as good as dead anyway. And failing two lords in space of an hour would have been more than even the gods could forgive. So he'd lied, shifted the blame, and they bought it – hook, line and sinker. The end. What was done could not be undone.

But why had Maira backed him up? With the ashes of her father still smoldering at her feet, no less. The Council could have chosen a new head for the Thirteenth House – someone they had by the short hairs – killed him and Galliano for perverting the Ritual. Then found a way to send their would-be tyrant back where he belonged – hell, or to anywhere that wasn't here. Justice dealt, peace kept, war averted, at least one between the Clans – wasn't that what Maira said she wanted? Without all this infighting, the Clans would have grown a spine and stopped playing fetch for the Robes.

The way things looked now, the Nine hells would freeze over first.

Why, then? Not because of old loyalties. The two Houses had been allies for centuries – the corner of his mouth quirked upwards – but the sight of Galliano made Maira's stomach churn. She'd wasted no time in getting that message across.

Galliano had sent him, a month after, to try and figure her out. _Who knows_, he'd said, _perhaps she fancies you_. Darius had scoffed – Maira didn't strike him as the type to run House politics based on a whim – but obeyed. Not a daunting task, with the woman looking the way she did. He'd made a discreet advance, once. The look on her face… he'd never forget it. As if a Feral had touched her – a split second of abject horror, before she managed to hide it behind a condescending smile. As if he was a servant to be dismissed. How Galliano had laughed afterwards – it made Darius feel a brunt of a joke he didn't get. The memory still made him grit his teeth.

Darius pushed away from the table, pocketed the letter and stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Galliano wouldn't be hard to find this time of night – only one place he could be; down in the lab, breathing down Harrison's neck. No time to lose. One way or the other, they had to leave tonight. By morning at the latest.

Two levels down, he stepped out of a narrow elevator. The lab – not much in creature comforts. Just a narrow cot, a table, a chair, and a small bathroom where Harrison had slept, eaten, and pissed for the last two weeks. Top notch equipment, with little else to occupy the senses. Darius glanced to his right – two assistants dashed around the room, carrying samples. No Harrison or Galliano, though. A glance to his left…

His stomach flipped, his throat dried. _Gods below_… he'd almost forgotten.

A man – no, not a man – sat on a wooden chair, ten steps away, his wrists and ankles chained together. Their first captive, Galdor. The last time he'd seen him, Galdor had looked like dying man, weak, fragile – all too human; something Darius had seen too many times to count. Not tonight. Tonigt, the sight of him made an echo of old awe surface. A shiver ran down Darius' spine.

_Fathers of my father_… As a child, he'd looked at the pictures in his nanny's holy book – worn, dirty, the pages torn from stuffing the dn thing into the crack between the bookshelves – and imagined what angels of her martyred god must look like. He'd never thought he'd see his imagination made flesh. Beautiful.

But he had other things to worry about. Like keeping his head attached to his shoulders. Darius chased the haze away with a shake of the head. Harrison had Galdor on that experimental version of the serum for a week, now. A slow smile spread across Darius' face. Harrison might get to breathe a little longer, after all.

Galdor's eyes glinted silver, brimming with hatred, as Darius walked across the room. "Were I free, now," he growled, "I would snap you in two, monster." Spoken in perfect English. That had surprised them, once upon a time, but Darius was past caring now..

Darius pulled up a chair. "Lucky for me, then, that someone put you in those." A gesture towards the chains – they rattled in turn. "You look livelier, I see." No answer. His shoulders moved in a shrug. "Just as dour, though."

"Untie me and see for yourself." Galdor's chin rose – the small metal collar around his neck moved against already chaffed skin. "If you dare."

Darius had no particular desire to meet his ancestors tonight. His gaze focused on the metal. The Anchor. Harrison had come up with the name – a bit too literal, as you'd expect from a scientist. "That still chafing?" Darius pointed at his neck. The collars were Galliano's idea, though a band on the wrist would have sufficed; anywhere on the skin, against a vein.

The chair swayed, off balance, as Galdor lunged forward – wrong thing to say, he guessed – and swung the chains. They missed Darius' head by an inch. Darius kicked at his chest. The chair arched backwards, and Galdor ended up sprawled on the floor. Before he could get up – damn, the bastard moves fast – Darius moved his own chair on top of him – Darius sat down, leaning forward.

The scent of anger, rather than fear, drifted upwards. A part of Darius felt cheered by it – somehow, he'd hate to see this creature broken. "I do believe that you want to kill me, friend." With a smirk, Darius pulled up. "In some painful manner or another. I can imagine why."

The pressure on his throat eased, and Galdor gasped for breath. "You and your kind deserve little else."

Time was short, and pain wouldn't work on this one. "Is that hatred I hear?" Rough wood scratched against his palms. Time to ram in the knife. "What happened to the man that claimed all deserved a chance at life, and a chance for change?" Galdor's jaw clenched. "Even turn-coat familiars."

Silence.

_On the mark_. "Wasn't that what you said to what's-her-name?" Galliano's idea – to put a kid in the same cage with every one of the captives. Some willing spies, others not. Galdor's cell mate had been an angelic looking fifteen-year-old. A sweet girl, if he remembered right. A bit stupid, too – getting attached to the mark and helping him to escape. Trying to, anyway. Galliano had taken exception to that.

Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing, but Darius forced a smile to stretch his lips. "The kid sends her love, by the way." Twisting the knife… there were times when he hated himself. "At least, I think she does. It's hard to understand her now a day." Ferals said little in general – Darius' stomach churned.

The pale face bellow him betrayed nothing... for a moment. The trashing that followed almost knocked him off the chair, even though he'd seen it coming. "Stop," Darius said, pressing down again. "Now."

Galdor struggled for long moments, then stilled. "_Yrch_…" More mumbled words in the same language, before he spat to his right. "You are fouler than any orc." Such disgust in the words. Warranted, no doubt, from his perspective. "Their evil lies in plain sight, for all to see. Foul, inside and out – there is honesty in that, if nothing else." The words came faster.

Eyes – ancient eyes – bored into Darius'. "But you..." Galdor tried to draw in a deep breath, then coughed. "A fair face, a glib tongue, an agile mind – all a wasted facade for a spirit already dead and rotting. Deceit upon deceit, lies upon lies… death upon death."

The timber of Galdor's voice seeped into his bones – Darius shivered. "I hate to interrupt this monologue of yours, but the clock is ticking, here." His hands clenched into fists. How did the bastard do that? Make him feel like something that crawled out beneath a rock somewhere. A split second feeling, no more, but it gnawed at him just the same. "You give me something that I want, and I'll return the favor."

Galdor continued, as if Darius hadn't said anything. "One day, that pilled up mountain of bodies will crash down around you. I hope to be there."

The words unsettled him. "I wouldn't call it a mountain. More of a steep hill." Darius steadied himself. "We're wasting time." Time he didn't have. "You give me the information I want, and I'll give the girl a quick, clean death." He'd wanted to, from the start. Galliano could be a right prick at times.

The elf's eyes fluttered closed.

"A part of her is still aware, you know." Gods, he hoped that was a lie.

Eyes snapped open.

"All I want is the layout of your defenses." Darius eased the chair back.

Galdor just shook his head. _Sod it_. Darius sighed and steeled himself. Time to hit where it hurts. With a flick of the wrist, he activated the intercom. "Bring the girl here."

Every muscle in Galdor's body tensed. "Oh, _Elbereth_." Were those tears in his eyes? "Do not do this."

_Don't make me_. "Start talking, then." _Please_. He remembered the girl from before – she had Kalista's eyes, the same line of the mouth. Galliano had noticed that, too.

"I cannot."

Darius nodded just as the elevator door hissed open behind him, the wailing noise drowning out his reply.

_I'm sorry_.

And he was.

* * *

--

**Autor's note**: Well, a new chapter after a long wait. Hopefully, the next one will be along much sooner. Feedback is very welcome.


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